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Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die

Matsuo Basho

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Matsuo Basho
Age: 50 †
Born: 1644
Born: January 1
Died: 1694
Died: November 28
Artist
Poet
Writer
Vaxjo
Matsuo Basho
Bashō
Bashô
Basho
Matsuo Bashou
Cicadas
Suggests
Cry
Dies
Nothing

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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things-mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.
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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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No matter where your interest lies, you will not be able to accomplish anything unless you bring your deepest devotion to it.
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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.
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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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What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No matter what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that is has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.
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Come, see the true flowers of this pained world.
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Orchidbreathing incense into butterfly's wings
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The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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The oak tree: not interested in cherry blossoms.
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Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?
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My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet.
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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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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The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
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Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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