The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
MATSUO BASHOReal poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
More Matsuo Basho Quotes
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The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.
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Traveler’s heart. Never settled long in one place. Like a portable fire.
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Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
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Old pond, frog jumps in – plop.
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Come, butterfly It’s late- We’ve miles to go together.
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How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
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Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
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I hope to have gathered To repay your kindness The willow leaves Scattered in the garden.
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Felling a tree and gazing at the cut end – tonight’s moon.
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An autumn night – don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
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April’s air stirs in Willow-leaves, a butterfly Floats and balances.
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Year’s end, all corners of this floating world, swept.
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Sitting quietly, doing nothing, Spring comes, and the grass grows, by itself.
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Poverty’s child – he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
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Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice… Or backyard love?
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He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.
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The fact that Saigyo composed a poem that begins, “I shall be unhappy without loneliness,” shows that he made loneliness his master.
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The moon and sun are travelers through eternity. Even the years wander on. Whether drifting through life on a boat or climbing toward old age leading a horse, each day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
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Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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The universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.
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Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old – / These fields and mountains!
MATSUO BASHO