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At Yercaud
You don't chill
Our sense of delight,
Nor coldshoulder us
In our joy of ascent
But only brace us up
With your rise
To rarefied ambience.
Your comforting cool
Of salubrious space
Lifts up
Our plain-punched
Flesh and spirit.
To a balmy breath.
Your altitude
Is a standing altruism
Of majestic self-giving.
At some points
Of your serene soar,
You delve
To spring up
In blue-hazed dells
Of arcane hush.
At your peak of calm,
You stretch our vision
Ahead
To horizonless ether of changing hues
Suddenly.
The bells at the fane
Ring
The transition
From a trancing seer-sport
To the bustle of the bounded
bourne.
-By G. Viswanathan
From: To our first granddaughter Pratibha and other poems
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