Two from Siddhartha

At one time shramanas had passed through Siddhartha's city, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three scrawny, faded men, neither old nor young, dust and blood on their shoulders, nearly naked, scorched by the sun, ringed by solitude, alien and hostile to the world, foreigners and haggard jackals in the realm of human beings.  Behind them a breeze blew hot with the scent of silent passion, of mortification, of ruthless self-denial.

Patapsco State Park

The Buddha went his way, unassuming and sunk in contemplation, his still countenance was neither happy nor sad, it seemed gently to smile inwardly.  With a hidden smile, calm, peaceful, not unlike a healthy child, the Buddha walked, wearing the robe and setting his foot just as all his monks did, exactly as prescribed.  But his face and his tread, his calmly lowered gaze, his calmly hanging hand, and from that calmly downward-hanging hand every single finger expressed peace, expressed perfection, sought nothing, imitated nothing, breathed softly in an everlasting repose, an unfading light, and inviolable peace.

-Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha