Classic Poem

Not of the spirituality of the mind,
Nor yet of the atoms of cosmos,
But as though reached upon white clouds,
Borne thither by pellucid breezes.
Afar, it seems at hand,
Approach, 'tis no longer there;
Sharing the nature of Tao,
It shuns the limits of mortality
It is in the piled-up hills, in tall trees,
In dark mosses, in sunlight rays
Croon over it, think upon it;
Its faint sound eludes the ear.