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The life-lorn dingo's sadly haunting calls   
are like the bell that tolls the word `alone'. 
As sun sinks down and scented evening falls 
the firelight rising warms primeval stone. 
No man is near, within two hundred miles, 
but I am not alone; can never be, 
for Bach is here and rings from every pile 
of rock, and homer sings his stories inside me. 
From Gilgamesh to Eliot all are here. 
How much I thank my teachers: most long dead, 
who stirred some depths in me to see and hear 
the artists of the ages in my head. 

The stars swing on; the shadows shuffle near 
of such delight some trace must linger here. 
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley - 1912-1990]