Irish poets, learn your trade, sing whatever is well made, scorn the sort now growing up all out of shape from toe to top
Gazing at the Sacred Peak
by Tu Fu
For all this, what is the mountain god like?
An unending green of lands north and south:
From ethereal beauty Creation distills
There, yin and yang split dusk and dawn.
Swelling clouds sweep by. Returning birds
Ruin my eyes vanishing. One day soon,
At the summit, the other mountains will be
Small enough to hold, all in a single glance.