(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892 / Lincoln / England)

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.

User Rating: 3,1 / 5 ( 110 votes ) 14

Comments (14)

Just seeing the waves breaking leads to these profound thoughts about a fisherman's boy and a sailor lad who have passes away, like the days in the past. They will not return.
the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Great lines.
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! great write great poem great 10++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Bad poem
Very good poem
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