Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me
An English home - gray twilight poured/ On dewy pastures, dewy trees,/ Softer than sleep - all things in order stored,/ A haunt of ancient Peace.
This gray spirit yearning in desire/ To follow knowledge like a sinking star,/ Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.