BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Break, break, break, 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 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. —LORD TENNYSON.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TS19231027.2.126.2
Bibliographic details
Star (Christchurch), Issue 17182, 27 October 1923, Page 4 (Supplement)
Word Count
115BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Star (Christchurch), Issue 17182, 27 October 1923, Page 4 (Supplement)
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