From - Break, Break, Break

From - Break, Break, Break - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me

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.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson