Where is the wild egret
Of the Himalayan
Foothill,
Who calls
At the break
Of day; who sails
In her glimmering
Country
Beyond the starred horizon,
Beyond the veils
Of dust and pain,
Who sends her
Flaming
Dragon
Forth to still
The stirring pit,
That none will
Be
Thereafter
But only the holy
Misted, quiet
Rain
That falls
Long,
Silver on the shorn parapet
Down the clefts of the rock-born mountain
And only the white petals of the lily
Who will find yet again and again
Her echoing,
Snow-winged song
On the windlit lake?
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