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. . . fields of summer tongues corn, sharp old stones green and warm the rain chattering . . . . . . the rebirth of life in life (the task of every poem) the exacting, and in compelling the yield the gleaning fields of new corn . . . little rufous bird humming through the dark cattail how suddenly you are a spear among the jasmine and the amber freckled weed . . . . . . does the gardener exist beyond the garden yellow butterfly? . . . in my garden rows bowing to the summer winds green onion flowers . . . . . . there were no windows until the violets bloomed there were only walls . . .

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