“When in the lowering sky thunders the storm-cloud’s drum, And all the pathways of the birds are thick with rain, The brother sits within the hollow of the hills Alone, rapt in thought’s ecstasy. No higher bliss Is given to men than this. Or where by rivers flowers crowd the bank, And fragrant rushes scent the tranquil air With heart serene the brother sits to see, Alone, rapt in an ecstasy. No higher bliss Is given to men than this.” And another: “Whene’er I see the crane, her clear pale wings Outstretched in fear to flee the black storm cloud, A shelter seeking, to safe shelter borne, Then does the river Ajakarani Give joy to me. Who shall not love to see on either bank Clustered rose-apple trees in bright array Beyond the great cave of the hermitage? Or hear the soft croak of the frogs, their foes, The legions of the air, withdrawn, proclaim Now from the mountain streams is’t time to-day To flit. Safe is the Ajakarani. She brings us luck! Here it is good to be.”[5] ----- [5] These Psalms are all translated by C. F. Rhys Davids. ----- Thus very great joy had come to be by the Blessed One’s sufferings, and for each pang he had paid came a golden harvest of the peace of others. To Him who had thus Attained came men and women from far and near with doubts and questions, and seated with dignity (for his noble Aryan birth was upon him as well as the Peace) he received them all, answering and resolving their doubts, nor was it difficult for him to do this for his eyes were as the sun in his strength to divide light from darkness. Yet let it be well understood that of certain things he would not speak, counting them beyond human knowledge and knowing well that in no human speech are there words to bear the burden of the Ineffable. Therefore when men asked him of the Beginning, how division from the Eternal into the false ego-self came into the world and from what well of bitterness evil thought and evil doing flowed to become tears and blood in their flowing, he would not answer, for none but a Buddha can comprehend the deepest, and he only in ways beyond transmission to others. And he would say: “The arrow sticks in the wound, will you wait before the healer draws it out to enquire of what wood is it made and whether the bowstring is of hair or vegetable fibre? Life is ebbing while you theorize credulously about present and future, self or identity. Of the origins I do not teach.” And when again they besought him to say whether life or nothingness lay beyond death, only his own nearest disciples could read the fathomless depths of his calm, looking rather to this than to his speech. For he said, being alone with them to whom it was given to know: