Poems By Arjava

IF all the stars were grapes that I might pluck

We'd fill that goblet where no shadows twine,

Not with sublunar fitfulness of wine,

But with the golden ichor of the Blest,—

That nectar which Tyndarian brethren suck,

Castor and Pollux, whose comrade feet have pressed

High paths too hard for wavering mortal zest

Where no vows dwindle nor mutual loves decline.

Still grant, O Shining Ones, our lives may bear

The cup of unflawed light, soul harmony,

Pellucid diamond that spreads no shade ;

There let the Wine of deathless gold appear,

Distilled as themes of lovely music fade

To a hush dew-drenched with immortality.