Basho Matsuo

Why so scrawny, cat?Starving for fat fish or mice...Or backyard love?

Twilight whippoorwill...Whistle on, sweet deepenerOf dark loneliness

Had I crossed the passSupported by a stick,I would have spared myselfThe fall from the horse.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

The journey itself is my home.

Summer grasses,All that remainsOf soldiers' dreams

On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.

It is only a barbarous mind that sees other than the flower, merely an animal mind that dreams of other than the moon.

Not knowing the name of the tree,I stood in the floodof its sweet scent.

Describe plum-blossoms?Better than my verses...whiteWordless Butterflies

This autumn-why am I growing old?bird disappearing among clouds.

If I had the knackI'd sing likeCherry flakes falling

When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.

Many solemn nights Blond moon, we stand and marvel...Sleeping our noons away

At one time I was weary of verse writing, and wanted to give it up. At another time I was determined to be a poet until I could establish a proud name over others. The alternatives battled in my mind and made my life restless.

Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.

Winter solitude-in a world of one colourthe sound of the wind.

Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.