An ancient worthy says “The shadow of the bamboo sweeps over the stairs, but the dust does not move. The disc of the moon passes through water of the lake, leaving no trace.” One of our Confucians says, “The stream rushes down swiftly but all is silent around. The flowers fall incessantly, but we feel quiet.” If you have grasped the meaning of this, then in all your relations with things, you are free in mind and body.

When waves reach the sky, those in the boat are unaware of the danger, but onlookers are trembling with fear. A drunken diner is swearing and cursing at the others, but they are quite unalarmed, whereas those outside are “biting their tongues,” in apprehension of a quarrel.” Thus with the superior man, his body may be immersed in affairs, but his mind is above and beyond them.

When in the mood, I take off my shoes and walk barefooted through the sweet-smelling grasses of the fields, wild birds without fear accompany me. My heart at one with nature, I loosen my shirt as I sit beneath the falling petals, while the clouds silently enfold me as if wishing to keep me there.

The steadfast, preserving, the simple, the modest, are near to virtue.

When in a difficult and dangerous region, do not weary of the journey; should you do so, turn back half-way.

Do not forget the ferry-boat fee and tips.

Do not mention other people’s weaknesses and your own strong points. Reviling others and praising yourself is an exceedingly vulgar thing.

You must not take a needle or blade of grass that belongs to another. Mountains, streams, rivers, marshes, -all have Owner; be careful about this.

I am one

Who eats his breakfast

Gazing at the morning-glories.

My hermitage

Is thatched

With morning glories.

If you do not know words, you cannot know man.

Seeing the heat waves

Over the eastern moor,

I looked back,

And there was the moon,

Sinking.

Mountains, on whose barren breast

The labouring clouds do often rest.

The petals of the lotus flower

Fall down by ones and twos.

The children imitating the cormorants,

Are more wonderful

Than the real cormorants

The Samurai, though he has not eaten, picks his teeth.

The White Chrysanthemum;

Not a speck of dust

To meet the eye.

If we are faithless, he abideth faithful, for he cannot deny himself.

Bent over by the rain,

The ears of barley

Make it a narrow path.

With a bull on board,

A small boat passes across the river

Through the evening rain.

By a house collapsed,

A pear tree is blooming;

Hear a battle was fought.

A world of grief and pain:

Flowers bloom;

Even then…

The women planting the rice, -

Everything about them dirty,

Except their song.

By daylight,

The nape of the neck of the firefly

Is red.

The Snake slid away,

But the eyes that glared at me,

Remained in the grass.

People all over the world try to know what they do not know, instead of trying to know what they already know.

The Rose of Sharon

By the roadside,

Was eaten by the horse.

Note: The Rose of Sharon only blooms one day out of the year.

Moon-gazing:

Looking at it, it clouds over;

Not looking, it becomes clear.

(Note: The anatomy of the eye is made up such that the back of the eye has rods and cones. One only seeing color [The fovia-centralis], it can only pick up color at the point where you stare at something. So in darkness, you have to scan your vision from side to side to see better the object you are trying to view. This metaphor can be thought of in spiritual terms. Looking at simply the facts or the tragedy at hand, you miss the clues that would otherwise be unseen.)

All around

That meets the eye

Is cool and fresh.

When all at peace, two friends at ease alone

Talk out their hearts, yet still

Between the grace-notes of

The voice of love

From each to each

Trembles a rarer speech,

And with its presence every pause doth fill.

The sea is as deep in a calm as in a storm.

Nothing is little to him who feels it with great sensibility.

Little Boy Blue –by Eugene Field

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and staunch he stands.

The little tin soldier is red with rust,

And his musket molds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy was new,

And the soldier was passing fair,

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue,

Kissed them and put them there.

“Now don’t you go till I come,” he said,

“And don’t you make any noise.”

So, toddling off to his trundle bed,

He dreamed of his pretty toys.

And while he was dreaming, an angel’s song,

Awakened our Little Boy Blue.

Ah, the years are many, the years are long,

But our little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place,

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

And the smile of a little face.

And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,

In the dust of that little chair,

“What has become of our Little Boy Blue,”

Since he kissed them and put them there.

Shadows, colors, clouds,

Grass-buds and caterpillars’ shrouds,

Boughs on which the wild bees settle,

Tints that spot the violet’s petal.

But indeed conviction, were it never so excellent, is worthless, till it convert itself into conduct.

Doubt of any sort cannot be removed except action.

“Then tell me,” I said, “Whence do you believe these moments come? And will you give me half your onion?”

“With pleasure,” he replied, “for no man can eat a whole onion; and as for that other matter; why, I think the door of heaven is ajar from time to time, and that light shines out upon us for a moment between its opening and its closing.”

Nature is written in mathematical language, but life is incalculable.

Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always right.

Do not deal with men; deal with heaven.

Unless a man ladles out ordure, he cannot be a good farmer.

The tree manifests the bodily power of the wind;

The wave exhibits the spiritual nature of the moon.

The old pond;

A frog jumps in,-

The sound of water.

In the water I draw up,

Glitters in the beginning

Of spring.

The scissors hesitate

Before the white Chrysanthemums,

A moment.

The white Chrysanthemums

Seem higher than they are,

In the morning twilight.

The moon in the creek shines upon the breeze in the pine-trees.

The white horse enters the white flowers of the reeds.

Reflected

In the eye of the dragon-fly,

The distant hills.

Over my legs,

Stretched out at ease,

The billowing clouds.

The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.

SPRING

The sun shines warm,

And the babe leaps up

On his Mother’s arm.

The budding twigs

Spread out their leafy fan,

To catch the breezy air.

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising,

There are forty feeding like one.

I could sit down here alone,

And count the oak trees one by one.

Every leaf and every flower,

Pearled

With the self-same shower.

With how sad steps,

O moon,

Thou clim’st the skies!

Warm both hands before the fire of life.

The old men know

When an old man

Dies.

What it is

I know not;

But with the gratitude,

My tears fall.

Whoever walks a furlong without sympathy, walks to his own funeral, dressed in his shroud.

With a look sidelong and half-reverted.

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare.

Where the teacher is, there is truth; respect for the teacher is respect for truth.

Do not follow in the footsteps of the Ancients; seek what they sought.

I am one who eats his breakfast gazing at the morning-glories.

For you fleas too,

The night must be long,

It must be lonely.

While gathering parsley,

Thinking I am after him,

The loach slips off.

The spring sea,

Gently rising and falling,

The whole day long.

(Onomatopia)

If I feel I cannot live anywhere,

I just will not,-

In this thatched cottage

Of a fleeting world.

Eaten by a cat,

The wife of the cricket

Will chirp his dirge.

Behind a pot of Azaleas,

A woman tearing up

Dried codfish.

In her best clothes,-

Coming back from the first theatre this year,-

Not yet taken off.

The water of the lake

Has increased,

In the rains of June.

Here and there

A deer shows its face

Through the undergrowth.

The evening sun

Filters through the undergrowth

Onto the hanging bed.

The tall trees,

Growing up together by the small village,

A landmark.

On an island on the lake

Where no one dwells,

The foliage is dense.

The family tree-

All of the Fourth Rank, the Fifth Rank,-

Is flourishing.