The Spirit of Mountain
It seemed I was born to another sense
And perceived even in the least flutter
Of the wind, or applaud of the torrent,
Or in ponderous climb of the wild yak
A universal Nothing. These ranges
Of the steep past surged yet to the silent
And benign peaks of snow, and old Ganden
Walked unto sorrowlessness of Desire.
There breathed no more the erstwhile disbelief
But revealed another trueness. It held
In its look these hundred thousand Buddhas.
I see a sudden city rise in these hills...

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