Cleanse my palate

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray 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 vanished 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.

-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

After "Redneck" wedding I had to post something else, lest my blog become sullied with the smell of redneck. This is one of my favorite Tennyson poems, and I thought of it because I am reading "Robinson Crusoe." I am reading "Robinson Crusoe" because I had to cleanse my palate (and myself) after reading those Vampire novels. I am constantly making up for my cultural indiscretions.