The labor into which a heart has poured its whole love--where will it have its say, to excite and inspire, and when?

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.

Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.

Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.

A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.

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.

It's remarkable how we go on year after year, doing the same old things. We get tired and bored, and ask when they'll come for us