Without a rudder or an oar.
Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow—
The compass now is nought to me;
Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,
If but ye bear me out to sea.
Yon waving line of dusky blue,
Where care and toil oppress the heart—
To thee I bid a long adieu,
And smile to feel that thus we part.
There let the sweating ploughman toil,