For years these secret dreams my very waking soul would haunt:
To make me into someone, and to give me all I want

But in my dreams, as I’d approach my conquering of all,
I’d walk out for my great debut into an empty hall

The life I wanted then: of glory, riches, fame and lust —
Would prove to be mere vanity; just empty air and dust

I wanted then whatever things to me life could commend:
Not knowing without purpose, I’d get nothing in the end

For life’s more simple – and complex – then I back then suspected:
For purpose, to be meaningful
Must be
Outward
Directed

(inspired by this interesting idea.)