Dhyana

The clear dawn creeps into the convent old,

The rising sun tips its tall trees with gold, –

As, darkly, by a winding path I reach

Dhyâna’s hall, hidden midst fir and beech.

Around these hills sweet birds their pleasure

take,

Man’s heart as free from shadows as this

lake;

Here worldly sounds are hushed, as by a

spell,

Save for the booming of the altar bell.

Chang Chien 8th cent. A.D.

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