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From pure white silk winds and frost arise.
Look at the eagle painted with so great cunning.
His neck shoots out, he meditates on catching a hare
With he sidelong glance of some barbanan.
Those gloaming silk loops and gold nngs can be grasped in the hand,
The roof beams are so clear drawn one could enter the rein.
Oh, marvelous, if the eagle could strike down a bird,
On the grass a precipitation of feathers and blood!