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‘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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