The clear dawn creeps into the convent old,
The rising sun tips its tall trees with gold, –
As, darkly, by a winding path I reach
Dhyâna’s hall, hidden midst fir and beech.
Around these hills sweet birds their pleasure
Man’s heart as free from shadows as this
Here worldly sounds are hushed, as by a
Save for the booming of the altar bell.
Chang Chien 8th cent. A.D.