Break, break, break on thy cold grey stones, O sea (George Alexander Macfarren): Difference between revisions

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==Original text and translations==
==Original text and translations==
{{NoText}}
{{Text|English|
POETRY MAGAZINE
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Break, Break, Break
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey 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 vanish'd 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.}}


[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Romantic music]]
[[Category:Romantic music]]

Revision as of 16:18, 22 April 2019

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  • (Posted 2019-04-22)  CPDL #54033:         
Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2019-04-22).   Score information: A4, 9 pages, 135 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: MusicXML source file(s) in compressed .mxl format.

General Information

Title: Break, break, break on thy cold grey stones, O sea
Composer: George Alexander Macfarren
Lyricist: Alfred Tennyson

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB

Genre: SecularPartsong

Language: English
Instruments: Keyboard

{{Published}} is obsolete (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications.

Description: from Novello's Part-Song Book (2nd series), Vol. 2, No. 63.

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

POETRY MAGAZINE
Poetry Magazine Home
Current Issue
Poetry Magazine Archive
Subscriptions
About the Magazine
How to Submit
Advertise with Us
Break, Break, Break
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
Break, break, break,
 On thy cold grey 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 vanish'd 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.