Explore "Break, Break, Break" by Alfred Tennyson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.