Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps' nest.
I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.