Matsuo Bashō (1644-94) was the greatest of the Japanese haiku poets. The vitality and flexibility his genius gave to the strict 17 syllable form brought haiku to a level of immaculate perfection.

In later life Bashō turned to Zen Buddhism, and the travel sketches in this volume reflect his attempts to cast off earthly attachments and reach out to spiritual fulfilment. 

…

I travelled a few miles on horseback, half-asleep, with my ship swinging by my side, exactly in the manner of the Chinese Poet, Toboku. There was an aged moon faintly handing in the sky while the foot of the mountains was dark as a hollow. It was a bit too early even for the first cock-crow, but my dreams were suddenly interrupted when my horse came to the steep precipice of Sayo-no-nakayama. 

Half-asleep on horseback

I saw as if in a dream

A distant moon and line of smoke 

For the morning tea.

I went down to Ise where I spent ten days with a friend named Fūbaku. I visited the outer shrine of Ise one evening just before dark. The first gate of the shrine was standing in the shadow, and the lights were glimmering in the background. As I stood there, lending my ears to the roar of pine trees upon distant mountains, I felt moved deep in the bottom of my heart.

In the utter darkness 

Of a moonless night,

A powerful wind embraces 

The ancient cedar trees.

… At last I reached my native village in the beginning of September, but I could not find a single trace of the herbs my mother used to grow in front of her room. The herbs must have been completely bitten away by the frost. Nothing remained the same in my native village. Even the faces of my brothers had changed with wrinkles and white hair, and we simply rejoiced to see each other alive. My eldest brother took out a small amulet bag, and said to me as he opened it, ‘See your mother’s frosty hairs. You are like Urashima whose hair was turned white upon his opening a miracle box.’  After remaining in tears for a few moments, I wrote:

Should I hold them in my hand,

They will disappear

In the warmth of my tears,

Icy strings of frost.

(The Narrow Road To The Deep North and other travel sketches by Matsuo Bashō, pub. Penguin Classics 1966)