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 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.

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Comments (11)

Bad poem
Very good poem
I would like to send a work of respect to all the legendary poets whose work inspires the young poets in the site to grow, i wish i can say the same to Philip Larkin and e.e Cummings unfortunately they are not that generous, their cause in writing was precisely business, shame!
This must have been a bit of crumpet for Tennyson; a bit of crumb. So many poms about barks and ships and High Seas and islands] To get one like this away must have felt childish!
.........love the imagery of the sea and the metaphor of the day works so well with the message in this beautiful poem...
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