Summer night--
even the stars
are whispering to each other.

All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.

That wren--
looking here, looking there.
You lose something?

Writing **** about new snow
for the rich
is not art.

The man pulling radishes
pointed my way
with a radish.

******* in the snow
outside my door--
it makes a very straight hole.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?  
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.  
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?  
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes  
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds

Sometimes I'd walk,
walk far from home,
the things I've seen,
and I alone.

Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew
Has chilled the robe she will not change --
And she touches a silver lute all night,
Afraid to go back to her empty room.