Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.

I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.

The journey itself is my home.

The basis of art is change in the universe.

First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.

April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?