Matsuo Basho
Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.
Translated by Robert Hass
First snow
falling
on the half-finished bridge.
Behind this door
Now buried in deep grass
A different generation will celebrate
The Festival of Dolls.
As they begin to rise again
Chrysanthemums faintly smell,
After the flooding rain
Cold night: the wild duck,
sick, falls from the sky
and sleeps awhile.
How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
life is fleeting.
Blowing stones
along the road on Mount Asama,
the autumn wind.
Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
a cuckoo crying.
When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.
Winter garden,
the moon thinned to a thread,
insects singing.
Wrapping the rice cakes,
with one hand
she fingers back her hair.
What fish feel,
birds feel, I don't know—
the year ending.