Break, Break, Break.

Break, Break, Break.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
378.3

Break. break, break, NYSON.
On the cold, gray stones. O sen!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh. well for the fisherman’s boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
Oh, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately shios goen.
To the haven under the hill:
But, oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy erage. O ses!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.