In this poor body, composed of one hundred bones and nine openings, is something called spirit, a flimsy curtain swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. It is spirit, such as it is, which led me to poetry, at first little more than a pastime, then the full business of my life. There have been times when my spirit, so dejected, almost gave up the quest, other times when it was proud, triumphant. So it has been from the very start, never finding peace with itself, always doubting the worth of what it makes.

If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling

Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!

This autumn- why am I growing old? bird disappearing among clouds.

Seek on high bare trails Sky-reflecting violets... Mountain-top jewels

On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening