Poems By Arjava

WHAT burning fruit is bending that far bough

Vista'd athwart the littleness of earth ?

There is no place for ease and joyance now ;

Our reaping-hook is mocked by sheaves of dearth.

Rinded with flame and aureoled with fear,

The fruit of deity is ripening fast.

Whose hands are pure to touch and find no sear ?

Shall deathless fruit through mortal lips be passed ?