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One perfect, windless, starlit, moonless night,  
a mopoke iterating far below, 
high on a ridge, exposed, as though in flight, 
the fire diminished to a warmer glow, 
I turned a magic modern knob. And then 
heard Gielgud reading Eliot's Four Quartets. 
Maybe some time the chants of stone age men 
recalling dream-time tales no tribe forgets 
reiterated like the mopokes song 
along this crest beneath the moving stars. 

This voice, this author, clearly both belong 
to peaks of man's achievment. Nothing mars 
perfection. It ends: and nature holds its breath. 
This night will comfort me until my death                                       
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley 1912-1990]