But a haiku by Buson came into his mind: 'I try to forget this senile love; a chilly autumn shower.' The gloom only grew denser.

I suppose even a woman's hatred is a kind of love.

THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.

Put your soul in the palm of my hand for me to look at, like a crystal jewel. I'll sketch it in words.

Along the coast the sea roars, and inland the mountains roar – the roaring at the center, like a distant clap of thunder.

The true joy of a moonlit night is something we no longer understand. Only the men of old, when there were no lights, could understand the true joy of a moonlit night.

The winter moon becomes a companion, the heart of the priest, sunk in meditation upon religion and philosophy, there in the mountain hall, is engaged in a delicate interplay and exchange with the moon; and it is this of which the poet sings.