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    Break, Break, Break

    by Lord Alfred Tennyson
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    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 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.
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