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
Dhyana'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.