Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Break,Break,Break.

              Break,break,break,
              On thy cold grey 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.
                                                          Alfred Lord Tennyson.

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