Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.