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.

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 the 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.

_Tennyson_.

[Illustration: Tennyson]

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_55_

barns

deaf en ing

i dol' a trous

pon' der

ca lum' ni ate

Be at' i tudes