I am reading a translation of travel writing and other prose by Basho, 17th C. Japanese writer. He writes:
Now, for those who set their heart on the spiritual arts and follow the four seasons, writing is as inexhaustible as the sands on the beach.
He wrote this in a haibun about a painting, and he decides that the writers of his day do not measure up to the master poets of the past:
The joy of continuing their truth is difficult for those today.