Poems By Arjava

WHEN I darken my lamp in the twilight

Till farness is shed through the house—

A viewless flicker of ghost-flame

In the stead of the flame that I dowse—

There are fitfully hearkened voices

Floating through gulfs of air

With the golden cry of a harpstring

And a bicker of lintwhite hair.

O honey-sweet was the music

With dancers lithe and gay

In the realms of the woven half light

And the harvested joys of day.