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 sings for his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings on 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.