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Hearing the sad rippled humming-forth, and forth. Elennennber, rennennber (How nnany years since his death Exploded in air, whose body the earth never reached?) Not so nnuch the knocking ofthe axe Inside the trunk, the answering one, Or the stricken tree that cut the sun Apart, and strewed it powerfully, shook, upon his head, But the loonn ofrain he held between his hands, The strings, the winter ofthe leaves. ForRichard Wilbur In such a trennendous window Seated, the whole rich dark canoe through, And the Arno nnost, we watched and talked And the traffic roared through the vital ruins ofFlorence Beneath, on a narrow street; The river trennbled in golden paints. I thought that either you or I, Or both, could rise fronn the nnossy casennent, And fronn a standing start Could clear the whole wild shaken street To the river, where light felt for its shape. It was a thing to think of: we could do it. But here in the afternnath, In the other heart oftraffic, I sit In the opening Annerican night, and, through you, rennennber That the great wild thing is not seeing All the way in to the center, But holding yourself at the edge, Alive, where one can get a look. Summons / 44 ...

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