Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that I 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.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands:
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt, he falls.

Song from The Princess

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
         Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
         Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
         Blow him again to me:
While my little one, my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
         Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
         Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
         Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.