A shrine, whose eaves in far-off cloudland
I mount, and with the sun stand side by
The air is clear; I see wide forests spread
And mist-crowned heights where Kings of
old lie dead.
Scarce o’er my threshold peeps the Southern
The Wei shrinks through my window to
O thou Pure Faith, had I but known thy
The Golden God had long since been my
Tsên Tsan 8th cent. A.D.