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The Buddhist

by
 There never was a face as fair as yours,
A heart as true, a love as pure and keen.
These things endure, if anything endures.
But, in this jungle, what high heaven immures Us in its silence, the supreme serene Crowning the dagoba, what destined die Rings on the table, what resistless dart Strike me I love you; can you satisfy The hunger of my heart! Nay; not in love, or faith, or hope is hidden The drug that heals my life; I know too well How all things lawful, and all things forbidden Alike disclose no pearl upon the midden, Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell.
There is no escape from the eternal round, No hope in love, or victory, or art.
There is no plumb-line long enough to sound The abysses of my heart! There no dawn breaks; no sunlight penetrates Its blackness; no moon shines, nor any star.
For its own horror of itself creates Malignant fate from all benignant fates, Of its own spite drives its own angel afar.
Nay; this is the great import of the curse That the whole world is sick, and not a part.
Conterminous with its own universe the horror of my heart! ANANDA VIJJA.

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