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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
Dreams
Thicket
Dream
Thickets
Warriors
Warrior
Grass
Ancient
Summer
Remains
More quotes by Matsuo Basho
Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?
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Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom.
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Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.
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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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A flute with no holes is not a flute.
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Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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If I had the knack I'd sing like Cherry flakes falling
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From all these trees, in the salads, the soup, everywhere, cherry blossoms fall.
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Ballet in the air... Twin butterflies until, twice white They Meet, they mate
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Poverty's child - he starts to grind the rice, and gazes at the moon.
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The desire to break the silence with constant human noise is, I believe, precisely an avoidance of the sacred terror of that divine encounter.
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Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise. Seek what they sought.
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When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
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The moon is brighter since the barn burned.
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Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.
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An autumn night - don’t think your life didn’t matter.
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The basis of art is change in the universe.
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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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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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