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.
Harshness vanished, a sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.
