Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest ...

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