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

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3
Having diedArkon the fishermanWent to heaven;Thus when a cometFalls in the skiesBe not frightenedO people of Karthana,It is only a silver troutFalling from a fisherman's line.
4
I thought my arrow struck a swan,But it was only the moonCome down to bathe in the waters of the Khava.
5
We are treesAnd our daysHang on branches,Like leaves;In the morningWe hideBehind the strong walls of our songs,But the wind finds usIn the evening,And takes our songsAnd our daysLike leaves.
6
Like an army with lit torches,The first frostsHave come upon my fieldsBurning the young corn.

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