Wherever in the Wastes

Wherever in the wastes of wrinkling sand

Worn by the fan of ever flaming time

Longing for human converse, we have pitched

A camp for musing in some seldom spot

Of not unkindly nurture, and let loose

To roam and ponder those sad dromedaries

Our dreams, the Master of the pilgrimage

Cries, “Nay the caravan goes ever on,

The goal lies further than the morning star.”