Poems By Arjava

SINCE all the coins are forged, how can I pay

The meanings which I owe that unforeseen

Generous forbearing, and most quiet play

And half smile comprehending what has been ?

Because my best is yours, how might I give

One token to you from the harvest field

You count as mine though blade and ear but live

In the golden light which your self-comings yield ?

O all too meagre what I would devise—

The net of words is flung and brings no gain :

As well make tally of untarnished skies,

Or clutch the shadowy silences that grew

Among the hazel stems in a sheen of blue

And drowned all memory of stablished Bane.