Year's End Still In Straw Hat And

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

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

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.

Come Out To View / The Truth Of Flowers Blooming / In Poverty.

Do Not Resemble Me-never Be Like A Musk Melon Cut In Two Identical Halves.