A bamboo path leads up from the lowland—
On lotus peaks emerges the Conjured City
From within a window all three Chu states;
Above the forests the nine level rivers
On soft grass monks sit cross-legged;
Tall pines echo their chanting sounds
Emptily dwelling beyond the Dharma cloud,
They contemplate the world, attaining non-rebirth.

Affluence—define it as:
pickled greens,
rice for supper,
wine, one container,
modest but never empty.

Toward evening on East Hill gazing,
Hesitant, uncertain, nothing to depend on,
On tree after tree, the colors of autumn,
On mountain after mountain, radiance of the setting sun.
The herdsman turns back, driving his calves,
The hunter's horse returns, bearing a bird.
I look at them; I do not know them
A long song and a yearning to “pluck the bracken”

In the shallows—
cranes wetting their legs
coolness of the sea

The sea put a finger of foam on its lips of waves,
Saying, “Shh!” saying, “Hush!”

I that was vexed and unquiet,
Heard, and was soothed.

Bitter, bitter,
A night that kills with a perishing wind,
The cold soaks the tight houses, fighting the fires …

The air about the street-lamps is blue with cold,
The moon's a disc of ice frozen to the sky,
The streets are whipped clean of people: the wanderer blows into the nearest doorway …

Dried salmon
the gauntness of a Kuya pilgrim
in the cold season.

Thy Spirit's deeper beauties shine
Thy body's outward beauty through,
And by thine eyes we can divine,
As by a lamp before a shrine,
The lovely inner soul of you.

How do we quarrel and hate, divided in hope and intention;
Yet thy locks, like mine, steadily grizzle the while.

Fear no more the wingèd boy,
He has spent on me his quiver,
Tortures me in cruel joy,
Burns my heart nor leaves me ever,
Cast aside his plumage vain,
Never more to fly again.