Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
Summer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers' imperial dreams.
There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.
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.