but after long, rain-filled afternoons
come the golden sun-drenched
before which, on distant housefronts,
all the wounded
windows flee fearfully with beating wings.
Then it grows still. Even the rain runs more softly
over the stones’ quietly darkening gleam.
All noises slip entirely away
into the brushwood’s glimmering buds.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, from “From an April,” The Book of Images transl. by Edward Snow (North Point Press, 1994)