I don't know what Nature is: I sing it, but, I can't sing. I live on a hilltop in a solitary whitewashed cabin. And that's my definition.

From the highest window of the house
With a white handkerchief I bid good-bye
To my poems going off to humanity.

And I'm neither happy nor sad.
That's the destiny---
I wrote them and must show them
Because I cannot do otherwise,
As the flower can't hide its colour,
Or the river hide its flowing,
Or the tree its fruit-giving.
I can't hide my poems.