Year's End Still In Straw Hat And

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.

From The Pine Tree, Learn Of The Pine Tree; And From The Bamboo, Of The Bamboo

Real Poetry, Is To Lead A Beautiful Life. To Live Poetry Is Better Than To Write It.

When I Speak My Lips Feel Cold - The Autumn Wind.

Do Not Seek To Follow In The Footsteps Of The Wise. Seek What They Sought.