Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.

How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers

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

Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.

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.

Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps' nest.

Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.