and I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me.
Oh well, for the fishermans boy how he shouts with his sister at play
Oh well, for the sailors lad how he sails on his boat on the bay.
And the stately ships go on
to their haven under the hill
and oh for the touch of a vanished hand
or a sound of a voice that is still.
Break, break break at thy foot of thy crags o' sea
For the tender grace of a day that is dead
shall never come back to me.
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