A dingo died on a distant plain, in the blazing afternoon sun;
He ran like the wind through heat and rain, as far as dingoes run,
And he paused at last on the baking ground, to rest on a bed of stones,
And the scornful magpies flocked around to clean his aching bones.
Our dreams will up and die one day, for all our youthful talk;
They’ll rot beside the highway where a thousand strangers walk,
And all our aspirations for this dearly-won acclaim
Shall lie like dingoes, dead upon a dreary, distant plain.
So let us not love empty things – not strength, nor wit, nor charm –
Nor trust this trash to save us from that bleak infernal harm:
Who chases dreams will lose them on the blasted, scorching sand;
But lowliness and faith shall find at last their promised land.
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