Poems By Arjava

O THOSE unburied dead

By whom the first word is said,

And the last,.... and all between :

Comes now a spectral power,

In their most arrogant hour,

Dreaming to life the thing that might have been ?

So may they, girt with pride,

As a doomed iceberg ride

On this great sea of lewth :

In their own falsehood penned

Utterly meet their end,

Probed mockingly by Spring-warm waves of truth.

They hated comely things,

Misprized the love that brings

Beauty and Strength and Calm......

Love gave the New Race light:

Singingly they dight

His breast with myrtle and his brow with palm.