Break, break, break,
  On the cold grey stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
  The thoughts that arise in me. 

Ah well for the fisherman's boy, 
  That he shouts to his sister at play! 
Ah well for the sailor lad, 
  That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships sail 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.