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A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
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
Warrior
Grass
Ancient
Summer
Remains
Thicket
Dreams
Thickets
Dream
Warriors
More quotes by Matsuo Basho
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.
Matsuo Basho
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.
Matsuo Basho
Come, butterfly It's late- We've miles to go together.
Matsuo Basho
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
Matsuo Basho
A flute with no holes is not a flute.
Matsuo Basho
First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.
Matsuo Basho
Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.
Matsuo Basho
The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.
Matsuo Basho
I felt quite at home, / As if it were mine sleeping lazily / In this house of fresh air.
Matsuo Basho
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
Matsuo Basho
Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
Matsuo Basho
Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die
Matsuo Basho
Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.
Matsuo Basho
If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
Matsuo Basho
Plunge Deep enough in order to see something that is hidden and glimmering.
Matsuo Basho
Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.
Matsuo Basho
Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
Matsuo Basho
Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice... Or backyard love?
Matsuo Basho
All my friends / viewing the moon – / an ugly bunch.
Matsuo Basho
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.
Matsuo Basho
