Boro-Budur

The sun shone on a far-away morning, while the forest murmured its hymn of
  praise to light; and the hills, veiled in vapour, dimly glimmered like earth’s
  dream in purple.
The King sat alone in the coconut grove, his eyes drowned in a vision, his
  heart exultant with the rapturous hope of spreading the chant of adoration
  along the unending path of time:
‘Let Buddha be my refuge.’
His words found utterance in a deathless speech of delight, in an ecstasy of
  forms.
The island took it upon her heart; her hill raised it to the sky.
Age after age, the morning sun daily illumined its great meaning.
While the harvest was sown and reaped in the near-by fields by the stream,
  and life, with its chequered light, made pictured shadows on its epochs of
  changing screen, the prayer, once Uttered in the quiet green of an ancient
  morning, ever rose in the midst of the hide-and-seek of tumultuous time:
‘Let Buddha be my refuge.’
The King, at the end of his days, is merged in the shadow of a nameless night
  among the unremembered, leaving his salutation in an imperishable rhythm
  of stone which ever cries:
‘Let Buddha be my refuge.’
Generations of pilgrims came on the quest of an immortal voice for their
  worship; and this sculptured hymn, in a grand symphony of gestures, took
  up their lowly names and uttered for them:
‘Let Buddha be my refuge.’
The spirit of those words has been muffled in mist in this mocking age of
  unbelief, and the curious crowds gather here to gloat in the gluttony of an
  irreverent sight.
Man to-day has no peace, his heart arid with pride. He clamours for an ever
  increasing speed in a fury of chase for objects that ceaselessly run, but
  never reach a meaning.
And now is the time when he must come groping at last to the sacred silence,
  which stands still in the midst of surging centuries of noise, till he feels
  assured that in an immeasurable love dwells the final meaning of Freedom,
  whose prayer is:
‘Let Buddha be my refuge.’