Poems By Arjava

THEY came—the woodland water

Was lightly .shadowed

By the gauzy tumult of their wings.

Then tiny shrillings and such little laughters

As hardly shook or stirred the air-built web

Of attercops upon the bramble thorn.

It was some distillation from the autumn,

When the un havened windings of hearts' loneliness

Are trembling on the verge of bodiment

In those white-mist-drenched mornings

Where the gossamer is dew-silvered

Among still mushrooms on the upland field.