"How shall I worship you, O mountains, mountains
I, in whose presence, seem a thing reborn,
Whose deep tree-shadowed vales and springing fountain.
Preserve the freshness of perpetual morn?
-he asks; "How of your quiet graciousness partake,
Your strength, your patience, your serenity?"
-he enquires. And gives his answer:
"Say nothing, nothing: caught up to the heart
Of this great silence, lay aside the rods
Of the world's chastisement, and kneel apart,
Remembering how wise those Rishis were,
Who for all beauty had a use most rare,
And now seem one with their commemorate gods."