Break, break, break
Is it not sweet to die?
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Fear no more the heat o' the sun
What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;
Answer me, answer me!
Impatient, despairing yet loth to go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations), to pace the beach was impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the mirror was broken.
And you as well must die, beloved dust,
And all your beauty stand you in no stead;