Thou dost complain of woman for changing from one to another?
Censure her not: for she seeks one who will constant remain.

Her light-silk socks part the waves in gentle moonlight,
her indeterminate glow enough to make a castle tilt.
In fragrant essence she compares with the plum's cold.
Plum and narcissus, indeed, must be born of the same.

To the mother I give;
For the daughter I live.

Moon-season roses have opened along the low fence.
I look intently at a pistil wrapped in a subtle scent.
Trying to break off a lower twig, I step back and call a maid,
my soft fingers instinctively fearful of being pricked.

As if
to conceal
within the folds
of her robe
a dear wife's tears—
so in the mountain's bosom
descends

In numbers
unseen,
planting women
sing planting songs
with voices clear—
as the sunlight fades away
where they work
in seedling beds.

Though in mind
you may journey easily
into the depths of the mountains,
without living here
how can you know their loneliness?

That ship that came,
washed on the waves
of Matsuyama,
in no time vanished
into nothingness!

As banked clouds
are swept apart
by the wind at dawn,
the cry of the first wild geese
winging over the mountain

Sounding even
more mournful
than I'd expected,
an autumn evening wind
tossing in the reed leaves