32 BREAK，BREAK，BREAK
By Alfred Tennyson
BREAK，break，break，
On thy cold gray 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 vanish’d 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．
