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Break, break, break,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 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.
Break, break, break, On your cold gray stones, O Sea! And I wish my tongue could say The thoughts that come to me. Oh, it's nice for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister while playing! Oh, it's nice for the sailor boy, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the big ships keep going To their harbor under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a hand that's gone, And the sound of a voice that's quiet! Break, break, break At the bottom of your cliffs, O Sea! But the gentle grace of a day that's over Will never return to me.