Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?