A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.

They were words that came out of nothing, but they seemed to him somehow significant. He muttered them over again.

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

And I can't complain. After all, only women are able really to love.

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.

The snow on the distant mountains was soft and creamy, as if veiled in a faint smoke.

Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.