I Felt Quite At Home, / As

Farewell, My Old Fan. / Having Scribbled On It, / What Could I Do But Tear It / At The End Of Summer?

Every Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.

April's Air Stirs In Willow-leaves...a Butterfly Floats And Balances

A Flute With No Holes Is Not A Flute.