Where there are no demands - but for the cricket's cry - yes, unprepared, you hesitate with silence in your hands. Standing where no one comes, you touch the unrushed day; where no punctilious thought can wait the noiseless wood ant roams. The rocks dream up young trees; the lake is listener; solitude and sharing state their sweet antitheses. Unhurriedly, your hands open at last to light; the laws of August conjugate: Punctiliousness bends.
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