1842 

                              BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

                               by Alfred Tennyson








şiElectronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
DAK Upgraded Edition, Copyright 2000, DAK Industries 2000, Inc(R)şI

{BREAK_BREAK_BREAK
              BREAK_BREAK_BREAK
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            BREAK, break, break,
              On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
            And I would that my tongue could utter
              The thoughts that arise in me.
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            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!
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            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!
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            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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                             THE END