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22 Before Summer Rain All at once something from the green world's gone; something . . . the park comes right up to the window—without a sound. A plover whistlesin the wood, grave and urgent, like Jerome, desert saint poised to translate out of whiteness, skulls and bones, whose effort the rain will echo. The chateau walls, as ifoppressed by the brooding paintings in their frames, recede; reluctant to hear our words betray us. And the worn tapestriesarestrewn with the off light of childhood afternoons you feared would never end. after Rainer Maria Rilke 84 ...

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