Poems By Arjava

ON tiptoe dimly I now take my way

Through the sweet-scented forests of a world

I cannot claim, in which I have no say,

—From which even now I may in thought be hurled.

I will not break one twig lest sap should bleed,

Nor brush the leaves that quiver and shrink and fold ;

Not one dream-petal from the future deed

By my dream-roving shall be earthward rolled.

I'd step too lightly for the sleeping dew

To feel an alien presence and depart. —

Grant that the dawn-clear joy may tremble through,

Limn the soft-splendoured wideness of his heart.