Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.

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 come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.