Robe

The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom— Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters— With a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, among the mountains lone And wild— Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.

Thus thou, ravine of Arve—Dark, deep ravine Thou many-coloured, many-voiced vale Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams—awful scene Where power in likeness of the Arve comes down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest—thou dost lie, Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come and ever came To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hear An old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desert fail Wraps all in its own deep eternity; Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion A loud lone sound no other sound can tame; Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, Thou art the path of that unresting sound, Dizzy ravine! And when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, In the still cave of the witch Poesy, Seeking among the shadows that pass by Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, Some phantom, some faint image—till the breast From which they fled recalls them.

Thou art there.

Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep—that death is slumber— And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.

The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom— Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters—with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, And a vast river over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.

Thus thou, ravine of Arve—Dark, deep ravine, Thou many-coloured, many-voiced vale, Over whose pines and crags and caverns sail Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams—awful scene, Where power in likeness of the Arve Comes down from the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest—thou dost lie, Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come, and ever came To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hear—an old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil Robes some unsculptured image—the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desert fail Wraps all in its own deep eternity; Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion A loud lone sound, no other sound can tame: Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, Thou art the path of that unresting sound, Dizzy ravine! And when I gaze on thee, I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest, Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, In the still cave of the witch Poesy, Seeking among the shadows that pass by Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, Some phantom, some faint image—till the breast From which they fled recalls them—thou art there! Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep—That death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.

I look on high.

Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled The veil of life and death? Or do I lie In dream, And does the mightier world of sleep Spread far and round and inaccessibly its circles? For the very spirit fails, driven like a homeless cloud From steep to steep, that vanishes among the viewless gales.

rengai shiki lotus flower color here the name is rengai shiki okay interesting welcome back this is buddhist books podcast episode 338 and Notice the little green book beside the monk beside the eight That's Shobo Genzo volume 1 the writings and lectures of Ehe Dogen and So today we're going to be continuing normally we read one whole lecture and or one whole chapter in one of these episodes, but this one is a little long.

So this is The Merit of the Kasaya, or Robe.

Part 2.

So if you would like to start at the beginning of the chapter that we're going to be reading today, then here's the link to Buddhist Books 328, which was Zen Buddhism Part 20, in which we begin reading The Merit of the Gesaya.

And with that, welcome to this episode of Amy & TJ.

Robes, it struck me so, so many years ago when I first walked by that memorial living in downtown New York when I see ...

You walk by names.

You see random names you don't recognize.

And then something that really stands out for you is when you see someone's name and it says next to it, "And unborn child." You can't help but stop, Robes, and just take a minute.

I'll be honest, I've never noticed that before, and you pointed it out.

And if anyone can hear in TJ's voice if he sounds a little off-

These are the unnamed victims.