Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.
Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
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.
All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.