Every Moment Of Life Is The Last,

A Thicket Of Summer Grass / Is All That Remains / Of The Dreams Of Ancient Warriors.

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.

Without Bitterest Cold That Penetrates To The Very Bone, How Can Plum Blossoms Send Forth Their Fragrance All Over The World?

The Haiku That Reveals Seventy To Eighty Percent Of Its Subject Is Good. Those That Reveal Fifty To Sixty Percent, We Never Tire Of.

Just Washed, How Chill The White Leeks!