Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/154

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3

Having died
Arkon the fisherman
Went to heaven;
Thus when a comet
Falls in the skies
Be not frightened
O people of Karthana,
It is only a silver trout
Falling from a fisherman's line.

4

I thought my arrow struck a swan,
But it was only the moon
Come down to bathe in the waters of the Khava.

5

We are trees
And our days
Hang on branches,
Like leaves;
In the morning
We hide
Behind the strong walls of our songs,
But the wind finds us
In the evening,
And takes our songs
And our days
Like leaves.

6

Like an army with lit torches,
The first frosts
Have come upon my fields
Burning the young corn.

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