Bashō Matsuo Quotes

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

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.

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

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

On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.

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

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

Dead my old fine hopesAnd dry my dreaming but still...Iris, blue each spring

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

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.

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

If I had the knackI'd sing likeCherry flakes falling

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

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

When a country is defeated, there remain only mountains and rivers, and on a ruined castle in spring only grasses thrive. I sat down on my hat and wept bitterly till I almost forgot time.A thicket of summer grassIs all that remainsOf the dreams and ambitionsOf ancient warriors.

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

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

ChrysanthemumSilence - monk Sips his morning tea.

Awakened at midnightby the sound of the water jarcracking from the ice

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

The journey itself is my home.

Summer grasses,All that remainsOf soldiers' dreams