Poems By Arjava

THERE is a harbinger divine

Behind the whirlwind wrack

Whose eyes with utter calmness shine,

Whose feet will shrink not back.

To rally the defeated ranks

Of Truth-upholders, he

Sans praise or guerdon, fame or thanks

Has blazed futurity,—

Sublime, indifferent, aloof

Or one or million sways,

And ponders not on whose be hoof

The outcome lucre pays.

Though most may die in battle's thick

Serene from following

Truth-arbiter where all was trick

And greed wrought everything,

Some few shall breathe the untainted air,

Watch in a world made new

The clouds of false contriving tear

And gold of Sun spill through.