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

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!

An the stately ships go on
To their heaven 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 crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.