Alfred, Lord Tennyson                 Break, Break, Break Break, break, break,     On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter     The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy,     That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,     That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on     To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand,     And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break,     At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead     Will never come back to me. 1834