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
More poems from Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Here's a poem that i wrote a few years ago. I don't really want to give out my personal information, so when you get famous from it, just say it was from a dedicated reader of poems. By the way, it doesn't have a name.
ReplyDeleteIn the firey depths of its lair,
Laid a monster who did not care.
Who did not care about the ones he loved, the ones he hates, the ones he kills,
He didn't even care that his diet consisted of pills.
"I have nothing left to live for!" the horrible monster cried,
So he crawled in a corner,
Laid there,
And died.
Hope you enjoyed it.
Yours truly,
The Everchanging Girl