My Life Puts Forth to Sea Alone

My life puts forth to sea alone;
The skies are dark above;
All round I hear gray waters moan, —
Alas, for vanished love!

"O lonely life that presseth on
Across these wastes of years, —
Where are the guiding pilots gone, —
Whose is the hand that steers?"

The pilots they are left behind
Upon yon golden strand;
We drift before the driving wind;
We cannot miss the land, —

That land to which we hurry on
Across the angry years;
Hope being dead, and sweet Love gone.
There is no hand that steers.