Buddhism

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!