Break, Break, Break

Author: "Alfred, Lord Tennyson"  | Date: 1842

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.

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Chicago: Alfred Lord Tennyson, Break, Break, Break Original Sources, accessed June 1, 2020, http://originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=Q3HBRWUVHMLL9V1.

MLA: Tennyson, Alfred Lord. Break, Break, Break, Original Sources. 1 Jun. 2020. originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=Q3HBRWUVHMLL9V1.

Harvard: Tennyson, AL, Break, Break, Break. Original Sources, retrieved 1 June 2020, from http://originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=Q3HBRWUVHMLL9V1.