A shrine, whose eaves in far-off cloudland
hide:
I mount, and with the sun stand side by
side.
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
Hill;
The Wei shrinks through my window to
a rill……
O thou Pure Faith, had I but known thy
scope,
The Golden God had long since been my
hope!
Tsên Tsan 8th cent. A.D.