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!
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.