THE BATHER'S DIRGE
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!
And I hope that my tongue won't utter
The curses that rise in me.
Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
Oh, well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!
And the ships swim happily on,
To their haven under the hill;
But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,
And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!
Break, break, break,
At my poor bare feet, O sea!
But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes
Will never come back to me.
Tennyson Minor.