He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

The birds were louder this morning,
raucous, oblivious, tweeting their teensy bird-brains out.
It scared me, until I remembered it’s Spring.
How do they know it? A stupid question.
Thank you, birdies. I had forgotten how promise feels.

^{translated from the Japanese by William George Aston}

I come weary,
In search of an inn—
Ah! These wisteria flowers!

Moon dance,
you were not to blame.

Nor you,
lovely white moth.

But I saw you together.

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Whirl up, sea—
Whirl your pointed pines.
Splash your great pines
On our rocks.
Hurl your green over us—
Cover us with your pools of fir.