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Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.
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
May
Rains
Swift
Collecting
River
Rivers
Rain
Water
More quotes by Matsuo Basho
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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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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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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Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.
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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness
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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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First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
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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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Sabi is the color of haikai. It is different from tranquility. For example, if an old man dresses up in armor and helmet and goes to the battlefield, or in colorful brocade kimono, attending (his lord) at a banquet, [sabi] is like this old figure.
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The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.
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I am one who eats breakfast gazing at morning glories.
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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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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The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
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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 sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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