... and when once the storm of youth is past ...

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you ...

ah! what else had I a boy to do? -

For the hungry teeth of time devour,

and the silent-footed years pursue.

 

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest,

and when once the storm of youth is past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus,

Death the silent pilot comes at last.

 

Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900)

Done