That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened,
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back,
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer; the patient is no longer here.
— T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets, The Dry Salvages