traveling he
Some several turns
Up the hills,
As if
Pre Raphael not
But
Post,
Sure,
at a gate paused,
Huffing
Panting,
After all a journey Uphill
Is always very wearisome...
But the surrounding
Those magnificent trees
Those cloudy translucent valleys
Those gardens smelling wild
Made on slopes dropping tibetan flute in his mind,
Did they not him give the light and songy peace
At the gate, as he stood traveling, sipping misty bliss?
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