Where is there for this inner an outer? Upon which does one lay such fine linen? And which heavens are reflected within them, upon the interior seas of these open roses, these carefree ones, see: how loose in looseness they lie, as if a trembling hand could never tip them over. They can hardly hold themselves erect; many allow themselves be filled all too full and flow over from inner space into the days, which, ever more and more full, close in upon themselves, until the entire summer becomes a chamber, a chamber in a dream.
