Poems By Arjava

DISTANCE and a blue-grey fringe

Of jagged hills—

A staple whereon high clouds hinge

And flood the ghylls

With peat-brown and foam-dappled rush

Of mountain beck,

Whose mid-stream water-wagtails brush

Nor halt nor check

Their undulous hurrying flight until

They near the nest

Where hungering young with opened bill

Make shrill behest.

On a dreary height the curlews call

Through empty air ;

The round-winged plovers circle and fall

By a peat-moss lair.