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. "
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