Poems By Arjava

THIS whiteness has no withering :

When petals fall,

Miraculous swan's-down-through the air,

A hundred petals build the crowning flower

Stilly nor all

Dissevering gusts can make that stateliness less fair.

The bee can settle in its heart of light—

O winged soul;

But we with fettered feet and soiled with clay

Gaze through bewildered tears

At that quintessenced goal,

Craving one prized petal-touch may light on our dismay.