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Break, Break, Break
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Break, break, break,
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On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
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And I would that my tongue could utter
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The thoughts that arise in me.
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O, well for the fisherman's boy,
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That he shouts with his sister at play!
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O, well for the sailor lad,
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That he sings in his boat on the bay!
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And the stately ships go on
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To their haven under the hill;
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But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
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And the sound of a voice that is still!
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Break, break, break
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At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
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But the tender grace of a day that is dead
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Will never come back to me.
Tennyson, Alfred Lord
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