“Break, break, break”

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 the 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.