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[The book printer - Amman]

Alfred,Lord Tennyson : 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 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.

Alfred,Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)	1834

 
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