Poems By Arjava

CAST off that outward life,

The foe to what must be born ;

Bevel with whittling knife

Wide windows for the dawn.

Break through the subtle net

Of past ward-aimed desire :

High in hope's turret set

The all-renewing fire.

Within a barren world,

Clear spring, a space of trees,—

Could the mirage Wrong unfurled

Be matched with these ?