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 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.