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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Acanthus and Wild Grape
+
+Author: F. O. Call
+
+Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33552]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACANTHUS AND WILD GRAPE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Acanthus and Wild Grape
+
+
+By
+
+F. O. Call
+
+Author of "In a Belgian Garden"
+
+
+
+
+McCLELLAND & STEWART
+
+Publishers -- Toronto
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1920
+
+BY MCCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED, TORONTO
+
+
+
+
+NOTE: Many of these poems were first published in Canadian Magazines,
+and the Author wishes to thank the publishers of the _University
+Magazine_, the _Canadian Magazine_, the _Westminster_, the _Canadian
+Bookman_, _Canada West_, and the _Mitre_ for permission to reprint.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+ACANTHUS
+
+
+  Foreword
+  Acanthus
+  The Old Gods
+  The Obelisk
+  Gray Birds
+  After Tea
+  Through a Long Cloister
+  Cathedral Vespers
+  The Lotus-Worshippers
+  The Broken Mast
+  The Lace-maker of Burges
+  Rheims
+  Calvary
+  Gone West
+  Peace
+  Hidden Treasure
+  A River Sunset
+  The Madonna
+  An Idol in a Shop Window
+  In a Forest
+  The Golden Bowl
+  On a Swiss Mountain
+  The Nun's Garden
+  You Went Away in Summertime
+  To a Modern Poet
+  The Mystic
+  Ad Episcopi Collegium
+  A Song of the Homeland
+  The Mirror
+  I Made a Little Song
+  Birds
+  The Bluebird's Wing
+  The Answer
+
+
+WILD GRAPE
+
+  Wild Grape
+  To a Greek Statue
+  Omnipresence
+  My Cathedral
+  The Foundry
+  Swiss Sketches--
+      (I)  After Sunset on Jura
+     (II)  Lucerne
+    (III)  Lake Leman
+  Visions--
+    I, II, III, IV
+  Japanese Prints--
+      (I)  The Lady with the Yellow Fan
+     (II)  Caged Birds
+    (III)  Wisteria
+  A Venetian Palace
+  Japanese Iris
+  Japanese Love-Songs
+  Cups of Jade
+  The Loon's Cry
+  Prayer
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+Poetry has been defined as "Thought touched by Emotion," and I know no
+better working definition, although no doubt more scientific and
+accurate ones could be found.  The best poets of all ages seem to have
+had this ideal plainly before them, whether consciously or
+unconsciously, and I cannot see how modern poets can dispense with
+either thought or emotion if they are to write real poetry.  For one is
+not enough without the other.  Take for example the first lines of
+Master's "Spoon River Anthology."
+
+  "Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
+  The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer,
+      the fighter?
+  All, all, are sleeping on the hill,
+  One passed in a fever,
+  One was buried in a mine,
+  One was killed in a brawl,
+  One died in a jail,
+  One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife,
+  All, all are sleeping on the hill."
+
+
+This sounds tragic indeed, but seems to have aroused no emotion on the
+part of the poet and excites none in his readers.  In fact, through the
+whole poem, emotion is held in check with a strong hand, and only
+allowed to show itself in some distorted cynicism.
+
+Let us take an example of the opposite extreme where emotion, whether
+real or fancied, has stifled thought.
+
+  O World!  O Men!  O Sun! to you I cry,
+    I raise my song defiant, proud, victorious,
+  And send this clarion ringing down the sky:
+    "I love, I love, I love, and Love is glorious!"
+
+
+The definition chosen need not hamper the most "modern" poet nor
+restrict his choice of subject, for there are few things that cannot
+awaken both thought and emotion if looked at in the right way.  An iron
+foundry and a Venetian palace have immense possibilities of arousing
+both elements, and perhaps the foundry has the greater power.
+
+The modern poet has joined the great army of seekers after freedom,
+that is, he refuses to observe the old conventions in regard to his
+subjects and his method of treating them.  He refuses to be bound by
+the old restrictions of rhyme and metre, and goes far afield in search
+of material on which to work.  The boldest of the new school would
+throw overboard all the old forms and write only in free verse, rythmic
+prose or whatever he may wish to call it.  The conservative, on the
+other hand, clings stubbornly to the old conventions, and will have
+nothing to do with vers libre or anything that savours of it.
+
+But vers libre, like the motor-car and aeroplane, has come to stay
+whether we like it or no.  It is not really a new thing, although put
+to a new use, for some of the greatest poetry of the Hebrews and other
+Oriental nations was written in a form of free verse.  At the present
+time the number of those using it as medium of expression is steadily
+increasing.  In France, Italy, the United States, and even in
+conservative England, the increase in the number of poems recently
+published in this form has been remarkable.  The modernists hail this
+tendency as the dawn of a new era of freedom, while the conservatives
+see poetry falling into decadence and ruin.  The right view of the case
+probably lies, as it generally does, between the extremes.  There is
+much beauty to be found in walking in beaten paths or rambling in
+fenced-in fields and woods, but perhaps one who sails the skies in an
+aeroplane may see visions and feel emotions that never come to those
+who wander on foot along the old paths of the woods and fields below.
+
+But it seems to me that it matters little in what form a poem is cast
+so long as the form suits the subject, and does not hinder the freedom
+of the poet's thought and emotion.  And I am old-fashioned enough to
+expect that beauty will be revealed as well.  Out of this union of
+thought, emotion and beauty, we could scarcely fail to get strength
+also, which term many modern poets use to cover an ugliness that is
+often nothing but disguised weakness.  But form alone will not make
+even a semblance of poetry as the following lines, unimpeachable in
+form, from Sir Walter Scott plainly show:
+
+  "Then filled with pity and remorse,
+  He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse."
+
+
+Nor can I conceive of more beautiful poetry than the following, by
+Richard Aldington, although rhyme and regular metre are absent:
+
+  "And we turn from the music of old,
+  And the hills that we loved and the meads,
+  And we turn from the fiery day,
+  And the lips that were over-sweet;
+  For silently
+  Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,
+  With purple robe
+  Searing the grass as with a sudden flame,
+  Death,
+  Thou hast come upon us."
+
+
+And this brings me to the real purpose of this Foreword--the
+explanation of the title of this book.  On the hills and plains of
+Southern Europe there grows a plant with beautiful indented leaves--the
+Acanthus.  The Greek artist saw the beauty of these leaves, and, having
+arranged and conventionalized them, carved them upon the capitals of
+the columns which supported the roofs and pediments of his temples and
+public buildings.  Since that time, wherever pillars are used in
+architecture, one does not have far to look to find acanthus leaves
+carved upon them.  In the Roman Forum, in Byzantine churches like Saint
+Sophia or Saint Mark's, in the Mediæval Cathedrals of France.  England
+and Spain, in the Renaissance buildings scattered throughout the world,
+and even in the most modern office-buildings of our great cities, this
+decoration of acanthus is to be found.  And the reason is not far to
+seek.
+
+  "A thing of beauty ... will never
+  Pass into nothingness."
+
+
+I recently saw a picture of a Corinthian column of a ruined Greek
+temple standing against the sky, and broken fragments of its fellows
+lying at its foot, with wild vines climbing over them.  And who could
+say that one was more beautiful than the other?  The carved acanthus
+leaves upon the column were beautiful because of their symmetry,
+harmony of light and shade and clear-cut outline, but the wild grape
+was perhaps more beautiful still in its natural freedom.
+
+So in this little book will be found some poems in the old conventional
+forms and some others in free rhythms, in which the author has tried in
+a humble way, to mingle elements of thought, emotion and beauty.
+
+F.O.C.
+
+BISHOP'S COLLEGE
+  LENNOXVILLE, QUE.
+
+
+
+
+ACANTHUS
+
+
+
+  ACANTHUS
+
+  Beneath the sculptured marble portico
+    Of a Greek temple, white against the sky,
+    Carved capitals on pillars rising high
+  Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow.
+  Proudly each column in the stately row
+    Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die
+    Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie
+  Where they were carved two thousand years ago.
+
+  Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound
+    By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home
+  Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned
+    Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome,
+  Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth,
+  Thou hast the secret of undying youth.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OLD GODS
+
+  Old  gods are dead; their broken shrines are lying
+  Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground;
+  I see lost beauty with each sunset dying,
+  I hear lost music in each echoing sound.
+  Old gods are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer
+  Beside old altars where our offerings lay,--
+  False gods perhaps,--but what have you to offer
+  Who batter down old temples in a day?
+  Old gods are dead; but still the sunset lingers,
+  The moonlight still its store of treasure yields,
+  Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers,
+  And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields,
+    The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above,
+    And human hearts still long for human love.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OBELISK
+
+  (_Place de la Concorde, Paris_)
+
+  There rise the palace walls as fair to-day,
+    As when with arms and banners gleaming bright,
+    The pageantry of royal pomp and might
+  Passed through the guarded gates and went its way.
+  The blue, translucent beams of morning play
+    On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light;
+    And here, where blind red fury reached its height,
+  An ancient column rises grim and gray.
+
+  Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be,
+    And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago,
+    Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow
+  About its feet of life's unresting sea;
+    But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low:
+  Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!
+
+
+
+
+  GRAY BIRDS
+
+  Gray birds of passage from another sky
+    Are those long hours I sit and wait for you;
+    Borne by strong wings across the sunlit blue
+  They go--dark flecks of shadow drifting by.
+  Sometimes they bring a song--a joyful cry,
+    As morn and eve your coming used to do;
+    But sometimes plaintive notes of sorrow too,
+  Amid the joyful echoes wail and die.
+
+  Then as I watch the beating of the wings
+    That seek a haven by far northern lakes,
+  And catch the note of some bird-heart that sings,
+    Or hear the plaintive cry of one that breaks,
+  I turn once more to half-forgotten things,
+    And the old longing in my heart awakes.
+
+
+
+
+  AFTER TEA
+
+  See how the agèd trembling hands of Day
+  Spill over the white cloth and tea-cups blue,
+  Red wine from his last goblet poured away;
+  So let me by the window sit with you,
+  And watch the sun drop down behind the trees,
+  Or gleam across the snow--a crimson bar;
+  For in still, mystic moments such as these
+  Down unknown by-ways we may wander far.
+  The crimson turns to purple on the snow,
+  The orange sky grown gray, and glimmering lights
+  Of scattered star-lamps through the darkness glow;
+  But neither Night nor Death my soul affrights,
+    For clear there gleams, all earthly dark above,
+    The ever-burning star-lamp of your love.
+
+
+
+
+  THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER
+
+  Through a long cloister where the gloom of night
+    Lingers in sombre silence all the day,
+    Across worn pavements crumbling to decay
+  We wandered, blindly groping for the light.
+  A door swung wide, and splendour infinite
+    Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away
+    The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay,
+  And a great minster's glory met our sight.
+
+  Blindly along life's cloister do we grope,
+    We seek a gate that leads to life immortal,
+      We see it loom before us dim and vast,
+  And doubt's dark shadow's veil the light of hope:
+    When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal,
+      And light unfading meets our gaze at last.
+
+
+
+
+  CATHEDRAL VESPERS
+
+  The gloom of night creeps down the shadowy choir,
+    But through the great rose-window's gorgeous bloom
+    Red shafts of sunset fall upon a tomb,
+  And makes the gray stone burn--a crimson pyre.
+  The creeping tide of darkness rises higher,
+    Tall ghostly pillars through the shadows loom,
+    And from dim altars through the minster's gloom,
+  Pale yellow gleams the guttering candles' fire.
+
+  Sudden from out the shadow streams a song,
+    --A sword of sound that cleaves the dark in twain--
+  And rings and glows triumphant, swift and strong,
+    Victorious over sorrow, death and pain;
+  And golden visions pass before my soul
+  As through dim arches the last echoes roll.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LOTUS-WORSHIPPERS
+
+  With silent feet in trailing robes of white
+    They crept from shadowy temples, far beyond
+    Tall bamboo groves, to seek the lotus-pond
+  That gleamed like some dark jewel through the night
+  Upon great Buddha's breast.  The crimson height
+    Echoed their chanting as the morning dawned,
+    And each bud, breaking from its silver bond,
+  Lifted its cup to catch the golden light.
+
+  And here beside this mist-bound northern lake,
+    Encircled by tall spires of Gothic firs,
+    The ancient beauty-worship wakes and stirs
+  Within me, as I watch the morning break
+    Upon white lily-buds, whose lips agleam
+    Whisper the secret of the world-old dream.
+
+
+
+
+  THE BROKEN MAST
+
+  It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore,
+    Above a crescent beach of silver sand,
+    Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand
+  Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore
+  The main-mast from the ship.  Above it soar
+    White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand
+    Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land
+  Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.
+
+  And through long summer days it dreams old dreams
+    Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing
+  Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams;
+    But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying
+  It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,
+  And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES
+
+  Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie
+    Idle and still.  Against the sunset glow
+    Tall poplars stand, and silent barges go
+  Along the green canal that wanders by.
+  A lean, red finger pointing to the sky,
+    The spire of Notre Dame.  Above a row
+    Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die,
+  The ancient belfry guards the square below.
+
+  One August eve she stood in that same square
+    And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears,
+      To see her soldier passing down the street.
+  To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare
+    With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears,
+      And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.
+
+  AUGUST, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+  RHEIMS
+
+  In royal splendour rose the house of prayer,
+    Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight
+    Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night
+  Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair.
+  Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air;
+    Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height;
+    And on the altar, like a beacon light,
+  The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.
+
+  To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud,
+    For thou, O Rheims art prey of evil powers;
+  But with a voice a thousand times more loud
+    Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers,
+  Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim
+  Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.
+
+  JUNE, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+  CALVARY
+
+  The women stood and watched while thick, black night
+    Enclosed the awful tragedy.  Afar
+    Three crosses stood, against a single bar
+  Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light.
+  No hint of Easter dawn.  In all the height
+    Of that dark heaven, not a single star
+    To whisper;--Love and Life the victors are.
+  It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.
+
+  O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.
+    A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom
+      Across the mighty tragedy is drawn.
+  But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song,
+    And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb,
+      And voices shout at last--The Dawn!  The Dawn.
+
+  AUGUST, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+  GONE WEST
+
+_Dedicated to Lieutenant Rodolphe Lemieux, killed in action August 29,
+1918._
+
+  I do not think of them--our glorious dead--
+    As laying tired heads upon the breast
+    Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest;
+  I do not see them in a narrow bed
+  Of alien earth by their own blood dyed red,
+    But see in their own simple phrase--Gone West--
+    The words of knights upon a holy quest,
+  Who saw the light and followed where it led.
+
+  Gone West!  Scarred warrior hosts go marching by,
+    Their longing faces turned to greet the light
+  That glows and burns upon the western sky.
+    Leaving behind the darkness of the night,
+  The long day over and the battle won,
+  They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.
+
+
+
+
+  PEACE
+
+  Now Peace at last is hovering o'er the world
+    On silver wings, and golden trumpets blow.
+    Home from the long crusade the warriors go,--
+  Victorious knights with banners wide unfurled,
+  Bow down your head, for these have passed where swirled
+    Great tides of darkness ebbing too and fro;
+    Their eyes have seen, 'mid fiery tempests' glow,
+  How youth at Death its dauntless challenge hurled.
+
+  And these are they who saw the Holy Grail,
+    Brimming with youthful blood like ruddy wine
+    Poured out in sacrifice.  The light divine
+  Before whose awful glow they did not quail
+    Now beckons us; and shall our footsteps fail
+  To follow where they set the blood-stained sign?
+
+  NOVEMBER, 1918.
+
+
+
+
+  HIDDEN TREASURE
+
+  O sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes,
+  Do you see the blue of the summer skies?
+  Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream,
+  As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam?
+  Then come, come away
+  From the shadowy bay,
+  And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play;
+  For we are two pirates, fierce and bold,
+  And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.
+
+  A roving craft is our red canoe,
+  O pirate chief with the eyes of blue;
+  So hoist your flag with the skull on high,
+  And out we'll sail where the treasures lie.
+  For in days of old
+  Came pirates bold,
+  With a Spanish galleon's captured gold;
+  And their boat was wrecked on the river strand,
+  And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.
+
+  Now steady all as we dash along,
+  The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong;
+  And soon we'll drift with the water's flow
+  Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below.
+  O, cool and dim,
+  'Neath its foam-flecked brim,
+  Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim;
+  So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe
+  For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.
+
+  Now home once more to the shadowy bay,
+  For we've captured the gold of the summer's day,
+  And emeralds green from the banks along,
+  And silver bars from the white-throat's song.
+  No pirates bore
+  Such a glittering store
+  From the treasure ships of the days of yore,
+  As the spoils we have won on the shining stream,
+  While we drifted along in a golden dream.
+
+
+
+
+  A RIVER SUNSET
+
+  Red sunlight fades from wood and town,
+    The western sky is crimson-dyed,
+  Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down
+    Upon the river's gleaming tide.
+
+  The hills' clear outlines melt away
+    Or veil themselves in purple light,
+  And burning thoughts that vexed the day
+    Become fair visions of the night.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MADONNA
+
+  She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed
+    In the midst of the surging crowd;
+  Her hands were warped with the years of toil,
+    And her young form bent and bowed.
+
+  Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance
+    At the throng that round her pressed;
+  But her face was the face of the Mother of God
+    As she looked at the babe on her breast.
+
+
+
+
+  AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW
+
+  Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,
+    From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;
+  And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass
+    The whole day long, through the ancient square.
+
+  Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,
+    Here by the window he patiently waits
+  For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,
+    In the days of old at the temple gates.
+
+  He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,
+    For his heart is bronze, and he does not know
+  That his temple has been for a thousand years
+    But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.
+
+  So here he sits through the nights and the days,
+    And the sun goes up and down the sky;
+  But he often looks with a wistful gaze
+    At the crowds that always pass him by.
+
+  And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream
+    Of his poppy-land of long ago,
+  Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream
+    And the kneeling throng he used to know.
+
+  But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd
+    Of human folks that pass him by;
+  Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,--
+    And the sun once more goes down the sky.
+
+
+
+
+  IN A FOREST
+
+  Silver birch and dusky pine,
+  Reaching up to find the light
+  From the forest's gloomy night,
+  From the thicket where entwine
+  Stunted shrub and creeping vine,
+  From the damp where witch-fire glows
+  And the poison fungus grows,
+  High you lift your heads, O trees,
+  To the kisses of the breeze,
+  To the far-off vaulted sky,
+  To the clouds that pass you by,
+  To the sun that shines on high.
+
+  From the dusk of earthly night
+  Strive, O soul, to reach the light.
+
+
+
+
+  THE GOLDEN BOWL
+
+_On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among
+Eastern nations was a symbol of life._
+
+  In a dream he seems to lie
+    Gazing at the golden bowl,
+  Where dim visions passing by
+    Whisper vaguely to his soul.
+
+  Restless phantoms come and go
+    Crowned with cypress or with bay;
+  Sad or merry, swift or slow,
+    Tread they down the winding way.
+
+  Still the pageant winds along,--
+    Youth and age and love and lust,
+  Till at last the motley throng
+    Fades and crumbles into dust.
+
+  All in vain upon the bowl
+    Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;
+  He shall read its hidden scroll
+    Only when it shattered lies.
+
+  For a wondrous light shall gleam
+    From the scattered fragments born.
+  Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,
+    Followed by a golden morn.
+
+
+
+
+  ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN
+
+  Lad, the mighty hills are calling,
+    Hills of promise gleaming bright,
+  And the floods of sunshine falling
+    Fill their deepest vales with light.
+
+  There the young dawn's golden fire
+    Beckons to a brighter day,
+  Untrod paths of youth's desire,
+    Heights unconquered far away.
+
+  Steep and dark and spectre-haunted
+    Winds the pathway to the height;
+  Sturdy youth with heart undaunted
+    Deems the toiling short and light.
+
+  Short or long, an easy Master,
+    Gives each tired toiler rest,
+  Counts not failure or disaster
+    If the striving be the best.
+
+  Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,
+    Mates of old must soothe their pain,
+  Mindless of whate'er befalls you
+    If but honour still remain.
+
+
+
+
+  THE NUN'S GARDEN
+
+  They have made me a lovely garden
+    With walls that are rugged and gray;
+  They have filled it with pinks and roses
+    And lilies that bloom but a day;
+  But the walls are so high and frowning,
+    And the paths are so smooth and straight,
+  And even their smallest winding
+    Leads straight to the chapel gate.
+
+  I have planted a bed of pansies
+    Along by the chapel wall,
+  But though I have watered and weeded
+    They never have blossomed at all.
+  The sunshine of God cannot fall there,
+    For the chapel tower is too high;
+  So under its cold, gray shadow
+    My poor little blossoms die.
+
+  The Mother of God--in marble--
+    Gleams white where the willows toss,
+  And at the far end of the pathway
+    The dear Christ hangs on the cross;
+  And when the vespers are over,
+    If I have not sinned all day,
+  I may walk to the end of the garden
+    And kneel by the cross and pray.
+
+  But oh, for the wild, wild garden
+    That I knew in the days gone by,
+  Where the birches and elms and maples
+    Stretched up to the wind-swept sky;
+  Where, murmuring silver music,
+    The brook through the ferny dell
+  Ran down to the fields of clover,--
+    But hush, there's the vesper bell!
+
+
+
+
+  YOU WENT AWAY IN SUMMERTIME
+
+  You went away in summertime
+    When leaves and flowers were young,
+  And birds still lingered in the fields
+    With many songs unsung.
+
+  I'm glad it was in summertime
+    When skies were clear and blue,
+  I could not say good-bye to you
+    And bear the winter too.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A MODERN POET
+
+  Why must you sing of sorrow
+    When the world is so full of woe?
+  Why must you sing of the ugly?
+    For the ugly and sad I know.
+  Why will you sing of railways,
+    Of Iron and Steel and Coal,
+  And the din of the smoky cities?
+    For these will not feed my soul.
+
+  But sing to me songs of beauty
+    To gladden my tired eyes,--
+  The beauty of waving forest,
+    Of meadows and sunlit skies;
+  Sing me of childish laughter,
+    Of cradles and painted toys,
+  Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers,
+    And the shouting of bathing boys.
+
+  For the earth has a store of beauty
+    Deep hid from our blinded eyes,
+  And only the true-born poet
+    Knows just where the treasure lies.
+  So lead me from paths that are ugly,
+    From the dust of the city street.
+  To paths that are fringed with flowers,
+    Where the sky and the meadows meet.
+
+  And though Sorrow may walk beside me
+    To the far, far end of the road,
+  If Beauty but beckon me onward,
+    Less heavy will seem my load;
+  And led in the paths of beauty,
+    The world from its strife will cease;
+  For I know that the paths of beauty
+    Lead on to the paths of peace.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MYSTIC
+
+  The mystic sits by the sacred stream
+    Watching the sun as it mounts the sky;
+  And life to him is a haunting dream
+    Or a motley pageant passing by.
+
+  Sorrow and joy go on their way,
+    Passion and lust and love and hate;
+  Only a band of mummers they,
+    Blindly led by the hand of fate.
+
+  Though the pageant is real and himself the dream,
+    Though men are born and strive and die,
+  Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream
+    Watching the sun go down the sky.
+
+
+
+
+  AD EPISCOPI COLLEGIUM
+
+  Here in the beautiful valley, here where the fair rivers meeting,
+    Mingle their waters in silence and wander afar to the sea,
+  Now does thy son returning offer thee homage and greeting,
+    Now do my wandering footsteps turn, O Mother, to thee.
+
+  Gleam in the light of the sunset cross and turret and tower,
+    Mirrored majestic and silent down by the willow-clad shore;
+  Far through the valley resounding, telling the evensong hour,
+    Echoes the old bell's tolling, calling me back once more.
+
+  Here in the halls where I lingered, there in the woods where I wandered,
+    On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow,
+  Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I pondered
+    Deeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.
+
+  Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness,
+    Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap;
+  Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness,
+    Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.
+
+    Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river,
+  Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night;
+    Yet will my heart remember both Mother and sons forever,
+  Far though the pathway may lead me, swift though the years
+        in their flight.
+
+
+
+
+  A SONG OF THE HOMELAND
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Homeland,
+    Though the strains be of little worth,
+  A song of our own loved Homeland,
+    Of the noblest land upon earth;
+  Where the tide of the sea from oceans three
+    Beats high in its triple might,
+  Where the winds are born in a southern morn
+    And die in a polar night.
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Eastland,
+    Of the land where our fathers died,
+  Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead,
+    Are sleeping side by side;
+  Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil
+    Of the mighty river plain,
+  Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings,
+    And the old faith lives again.
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Westland
+    Where the magic cities rise,
+  And the prairies clothed with their golden grain
+    Stretch under the azure skies;
+  Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim
+    Far north in the arctic land,
+  And the northern light in its mystic flight
+    Flares over the golden strand.
+
+  And I'll sing of the men of the Homeland
+    From the north and east and west,
+  The men who went to the Homeland's call,
+    (Ah, God, we have given our best!)
+  But not in vain are our heroes slain
+    If under the darkened skies,
+  All hand in hand from strand to strand
+    A sin-purged nation rise.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MIRROR
+
+  Your mirror, love, reflects your smile
+    As morn-flushed skies the coming dawn,
+  But oh, how blank the weary while
+    When you are gone!
+
+  My life's a mirror; with you near
+    'Tis filled with joy the live-long day,
+  But oh, how meaningless and drear
+    With you away!
+
+
+
+
+  I MADE A LITTLE SONG
+
+  I made a little song to-day,
+  And then I wandered down Broadway,
+  And saw the strange mad people run
+  And dance about me in the sun,
+  Or dive into the Underground
+  Like rabbits frightened by the sound
+  Of their own scampering through the grass;
+  I watched a thousand people pass,
+  But not a one did I hear say--
+  I made a little song to-day.
+
+  I made a little song to-day,
+  It sang beside me all the way
+  Until I reached the lower town,
+  Where crowds went surging up and down.
+  Their eyes were hard and faces white,
+  But some of them looked glad and bright,
+  Because the Bulls--or was it Bears?--
+  Had brought them gold for worthless shares;
+  But I was happier than they;--
+  I made a little song to-day.
+
+
+
+
+  BIRDS
+
+  I lie beneath a dark green pine
+  Where sunbeams scarcely ever shine,
+  And if I'm still as still can be
+  Shy forest birds come down to me.
+
+  Brown thrushes run along the ground,
+  Goldfinches flit without a sound,
+  And humming-birds with ruby throats
+  Alight to smooth their emerald coats.
+
+  And when some day alone I lie
+  Beneath the ever-changing sky,
+  I'm glad to know the birds will come
+  To welcome me to my new home.
+
+  For I will lie so still that they
+  Will linger by me all the day,
+  And lulled at evening by their song
+  I shall not find the darkness long.
+
+
+
+
+  THE BLUEBIRD'S WING
+
+  One day I saw the bluebird's wing
+  Agleam upon a waving sea
+  Of emerald-coloured timothy.
+  We walked together--you and I--
+  We saw the bluebird gliding by;
+  He came so near--the mad, wild thing--
+  We almost touched his sapphire wing,
+  But ere across our path he flew
+  He rose and vanished in the blue.
+
+  To-day I saw the bluebird's wing;
+  I heard wood-thrushes round me sing;
+  Wind-blown across the April sky,
+  Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by;
+  And on the sky-line's silver sheen
+  White birches danced in frills of green,
+  And all the world was mad with spring.
+  But you were miles and miles away;
+  The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.
+
+
+
+
+  THE ANSWER
+
+  Why do I lie upon the ground
+  And listen to the silver sound
+  Of water flowing from a spring?
+  It sings a song I cannot sing.
+
+  Why am I gazing at the sky
+  To watch the clouds go trailing by?
+  --Pearl ships upon a sapphire sea--
+  They seek a land unknown to me.
+
+  Why do I listen to the song
+  Of pine-boughs singing all day long?
+  The secret that their songs unfold
+  Ten thousand bards have left untold.
+
+
+
+
+WILD GRAPE
+
+
+
+  WILD GRAPE
+
+  Beneath the crawling shadow
+  Of a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten,
+  The wild grape twines amid the fragments
+  Of shattered pillars prone upon the ground,
+  And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures
+  Of faun and youth and maiden,
+  That once stood in the temple pediment,
+  Young, naked, beautiful.
+  In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus
+  leaves of the crumbling columns,
+  And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.
+  The wild bees hum and buzz
+  Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,
+  Under the drowsy noonday sun,
+  That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the
+        thirsting hillside.
+  Wanton and wild,
+  Like an unhappy lover
+  Clinging to the breast of his dead mistress,
+  The vine clings in voluptuous embrace
+  About the naked, pallid forms,
+  And mingles there with the eternal beauty
+  Of youth and age
+  And life and death.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A GREEK STATUE
+
+  Beautiful statue of Parian marble,
+  Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight,
+  Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon;
+  I follow, I follow.
+
+  Slender and white is your beautiful body,
+  Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you;
+  Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleeping
+  Is the dream you emprison;--
+
+  A dream of beauty that lingers forever,
+  A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight,
+  A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters,
+  Reflecting white temples.
+
+  Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow,
+  My dream goes forth with your dream to wander;
+  You lead me into a moonlit garden
+  Beside the Ægean.
+
+  White in the moonlight gleams the temple
+  Cutting the purple sky with its pediment;
+  Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain;
+  Black are the cypress trees.
+
+  The gods are asleep in the silent temple;
+  Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand
+  Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating
+  With the bells of the fountain.
+
+  Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses,
+  Not in vain are your white arms lifted;
+  And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal
+  Embrace in the moonlight.
+
+
+
+
+  OMNIPRESENCE
+
+  What are the great pine boughs
+  That stretch over me so lovingly
+  Shielding me from the heat?
+  They are the sheltering arms of God,
+  Visible
+  Against white drifting clouds.
+
+  And the trailing white clouds,--
+  What are they?
+  They are the tattered, worn-out clothes,
+  Bordered with broken pearls,
+  Cast off by the angels and archangels,
+  And by God himself.
+
+
+
+
+  MY CATHEDRAL
+
+  All my life long I have loved cathedrals;
+  Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches
+  Are the home of peace and beauty,
+  And sometimes, too, of hope.
+  Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glass
+  Shut out the noisy world,
+  And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.
+  Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts;
+  Their blue welling clouds of incense
+  Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers,
+  And their gleaming candles
+  Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.
+
+  And now I have a cathedral all my own.
+  It has great pine trunks for pillars,
+  For painted windows red and golden leaves;
+  White slender birches are the singing-boys,
+  And the great organ the winds of God
+  Playing among the pine-boughs.
+  The prim little spruces are virgin nuns,
+  Telling their beads in drops of dew;
+  And the bare broken tree-stumps
+  Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms,
+  But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.
+  The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me;
+  The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell;
+  From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;
+  And from the great high altar of eternal rock,
+  God himself looks forth
+  In the red glory of the dawn.
+
+
+
+
+  THE FOUNDRY
+
+  Two monsters,
+  Iron and Coal,
+  Sleep in the darkness.
+  A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,
+  And they awake hissing and writhing,
+  And spew forth blood-red vomit
+  In streams like fiery serpents.
+  Then from the reeking pools
+  A monstrous brood is born,
+  Black, strong, beautiful.
+  But we turn away our tired eyes,
+  And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.
+
+
+
+
+  SWISS SKETCHES
+
+  I.--AFTER SUNSET ON JURA
+
+  The Alps--
+  A mighty string of pearls
+  Which Day has laid aside--
+  Flaunt their alluring beauty
+  Upon the purple velvet of deep valleys,
+  Until night,
+  Stretching out black greedy fingers,
+  Steals them one by one.
+
+
+  II.--LUCERNE
+
+  From staring eyes
+  Of hotel windows,
+  From flaunting rich
+  And cringing poor,
+  From men and women
+  Drunken with wine, passion and money,
+  From tired Cook's tourists
+  Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds,
+  From shrieking steamers
+  Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds,
+  From bands beating out brazen music
+  Under the twisted plane-trees,
+  From all that is poor and rich and ugly,
+  I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills
+  Which are outlined upon orange and crimson
+  By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight,
+  And there my soul finds peace.
+
+
+  III.--LAKE LEMAN
+
+  Like the High Priest of Jehovah
+  The lake, for the Festival of Beauty
+  Puts upon its blue garment
+  A gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.
+
+  Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire;
+  My eyes can scarcely bear its glory,
+  As it burns crimson and scarlet
+  On jasper and flame-colored sard,
+  On ruby, red as sunset flame,
+  And topaz shot with golden lights.
+  Like the eternal fire of distant stars--
+  Blue, green and white,
+  Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire,
+  Jacinth and beryl,
+  Onyx and green-banded agate,
+  And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers.
+  Morning and evening
+  On the day of the great Festival
+  The High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate,
+  And the chosen people, blinded by its glory,
+  Bow down and worship.
+
+
+
+
+  VISIONS
+
+  I.
+
+  I saw a vision of beauty.
+  My eyes looked through the mists of ages,
+  Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was God.
+  And I saw the waves of the blue Ægean,
+  Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled,
+  And I heard the singing of the water,
+  As of playing of distant pipes
+  By slender shepherd lads among the hills.
+  Then I turned away from the shore
+  And I saw the pediment of a great temple
+  Standing white against the sky,
+  And beneath the pediment rows of marble columns
+  Like giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty.
+  Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees,
+  Statues of gods and goddesses, youths and maidens,
+  Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten brass.
+  My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway,
+  And I went a worshipper to the great temple,
+  Whose burnished doors stood wide ajar
+  Gleaming like the portal of a dream city;
+  I lifted my arms in adoration,
+  And my soul drank its fill
+  From the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  I saw a vision of faith.
+  My eyes were turned to a mediæval city
+  Of crowded low-roofed houses,
+  From which there rose a great cathedral,
+  With walls of chiselled stone
+  And spires that pierced into the blue.
+  Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brain
+  Long years in wood and stone,
+  Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their God.
+  I entered in,
+
+  And saw the walls agleam with painted glass,
+  More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings;
+  I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea,
+  And the voices of the singing-boys
+  Like soft ripples on the velvet sand.
+  With golden cross and smoking censers
+  And priests in robes of scarlet and purple,
+  The procession passed along;
+  Then the great sweating throng
+  Bowed low upon the stony floor before the Host,
+  And when the echoing music
+  Had vanished in the soaring vault above,
+  The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloom
+  Comforted, into the golden sun-light.
+  My soul, too, was comforted,
+  For it had drunk deep
+  From the pure mediæval well of faith.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  I saw a vision of love.
+  Upon the field of battle
+  Amid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapour
+  Red streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground,
+  Generously,
+  Joyfully,
+  That the world might not die from its festering wounds,
+  But might drink health and life
+  From these pure, youthful streams.
+  Then I stood awed and dumb,
+  For here was love supreme.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  I saw a vision of death.
+  Silence held my feet with clinging hands,
+  And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes.
+  Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadows
+  A great night-moth with sable folded wings;
+  It seemed asleep upon a purple flower,
+  But as I watched,
+  Slowly it spread its wings,
+  And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn,
+  And all the world was drenched in showers of light.
+  Then with his flaming wings outspread
+  The great moth sailed away,
+  Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea,
+  Leaving behind a wake of golden light.
+  And I know that my vision of death
+  Was only a vision of beauty.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE PRINTS
+
+  I.--THE LADY WITH THE YELLOW FAN
+
+  O little lady with the yellow fan
+  Why are you so sad?
+  Why does a tear stand
+  Like a tea-flower bud upon your cheek?
+  Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk,
+  Your slippers are embroidered with gems,
+  A gold and emerald butterfly has lighted in your hair,
+  Your serving-maid stands near
+  Awaiting your command,
+  And if you lifted but one slender finger
+  A chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace.
+  Why are you so sad?
+
+  It is because the ships beside the shore
+  Spread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze;
+  The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands,
+  And there is a gleam of swords and armour,
+  For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.
+
+
+  II.--CAGED BIRDS
+
+  There are yellow birds within the cage;
+  Beside its gilded bars there stand the women
+  Whom the Great Prince loves to honour.
+  They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair,
+  And live in a pretty pink and yellow house.
+  But the women look not at the captive singing-birds,
+  Nor listen to their song,
+  Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves,
+  Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.
+
+
+  III.--WISTERIA
+
+  Why do you peer at me, old man,
+  With eyes half shut,
+  From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?
+  Your face is but a mask,
+  Showing neither joy nor sorrow;
+  But I know you bend your head to listen
+  When the wild geese go honking towards the south,
+  And your eyes grow wide with sadness,
+  When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.
+  You, too, love beauty,
+  Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts,
+  Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?
+
+
+
+
+  A VENETIAN PALACE
+
+  In quivering translucent light,
+  Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky,
+  Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water,
+  Sleeps Beauty,
+  Turned to stone by a miracle of art.
+  And though she never stirs,
+  But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe
+  Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white,
+  We come from far-off cities,
+  And we turn to her our hungry eyes,
+  Even away from sunlit sky and sea.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE IRIS
+
+  A great prince of the ancient days
+  Once loved a little geisha girl,
+  Who wore a silken robe,
+  Blue as the waters of the lily-pond.
+  But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island,
+  And the little geisha girl
+  Never put on her robe of blue again.
+
+  And you, O purple iris with the golden bands,
+  Are the soul of the Great Prince;
+  And you, O slender one,
+  Blue as lapis lazuli,
+  Are the soul of the little dancing-girl;
+  And you nestle at last
+  Beside your stately purple Prince,
+  Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE LOVE-SONGS
+
+  (_In the Hokku manner_)
+
+  I.
+
+  The white lotus-flower
+  Grows in the depths of the pool,
+  Love grows in my heart.
+
+  II.
+
+  The peony flames crimson.
+  My heart's blood is far redder
+  Than its flame.
+
+  III.
+
+  Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms.
+  Mist and drizzle of rain.
+  Where art thou?
+
+  IV.
+
+  Darkness.  Shadows in my soul.
+  The vision of your face.
+  Dawn and music.
+
+  V.
+
+  Hush of night.  Perfumed breath of night.
+  A moth with flaming wings.
+  Come beloved.
+
+
+
+
+  CUPS OF JADE
+
+  The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys;
+  The little wooden bridge,
+  Where the waterfall rings its silver bells,
+  Is a bow of darkness;
+  The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet;
+  A cloud of night-birds
+  Dots the orange sky.
+
+  All day our paths have led us side by side
+  Along the steep hot highways.
+  It is cool evening now,
+  And the temple bells call you one way
+  And the silence calls me another.
+
+  We come to the white door-posts of your house,
+  We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves.
+  We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drink
+  From a cup of sea-green jade.
+  Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter,
+  For I know that to-morrow
+  My path will not lead over the steep hill,
+  Nor yours down to the deep valley,
+  For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LOON'S CRY
+
+  Outside the tent
+  Darkness and giant trees swaying in the wind.
+  The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep.
+  And far across the lazy lapping waves,
+  Above the crooning of the wind,
+  I hear a wild loon crying,
+  Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.
+
+  Inside the tent
+  Your gentle breathing,
+  Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon;
+  Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.
+
+  Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry,
+  But now it is only the voice of Loneliness
+  Bidding me farewell,
+  As it passes away into the night.
+
+  You stir in your sleep softly
+  And turn your face to me,--
+  And the loon cries no more.
+
+
+
+
+  PRAYER
+
+  I.
+
+  A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple
+  And played the music taught it by the wind,
+  At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain,
+  When the breeze of summer night caressed it,
+  Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea,
+  Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.
+  And the people,
+  Who never heard the music of the wind,
+  Paused to listen to the wind-bell,
+  And then passed on through the temple gate,
+  With music echoing in their ears.
+
+  O Maker of all music,
+  Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  Beyond the temple gate
+  A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.
+  At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast,
+  At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.
+  And the people,
+  Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky,
+  Would linger as they passed from prayer
+  To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool,
+  And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets,
+  With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.
+
+  O Maker of all beauty,
+  Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.
+
+
+
+
+
+  Warwick Bro's & Rutter, Limited,
+  Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACANTHUS AND WILD GRAPE ***
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+<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1">
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+</TITLE>
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+P {text-indent: 4% }
+
+P.noindent {text-indent: 0% }
+
+P.poem {text-indent: 0%;
+        margin-left: 10%; }
+
+P.letter {text-indent: 0%;
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Acanthus and Wild Grape
+
+Author: F. O. Call
+
+Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33552]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACANTHUS AND WILD GRAPE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H1 ALIGN="center">
+Acanthus and Wild Grape
+</H1>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+By
+</H4>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+F. O. Call
+</H3>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+Author of "In a Belgian Garden"
+</H4>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+McCLELLAND &amp; STEWART
+<BR>
+Publishers &mdash; Toronto
+</H3>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H5 ALIGN="center">
+COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1920
+<BR>
+BY MCCLELLAND &amp; STEWART, LIMITED, TORONTO
+</H5>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+NOTE: Many of these poems were first published in Canadian Magazines,
+and the Author wishes to thank the publishers of the <I>University
+Magazine</I>, the <I>Canadian Magazine</I>, the <I>Westminster</I>, the <I>Canadian
+Bookman</I>, <I>Canada West</I>, and the <I>Mitre</I> for permission to reprint.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+CONTENTS
+</H2>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+ACANTHUS
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+<A HREF="#foreword">Foreword</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#acanthus">Acanthus</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#gods">The Old Gods</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#obelisk">The Obelisk</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#graybirds">Gray Birds</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#tea">After Tea</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#cloister">Through a Long Cloister</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#vespers">Cathedral Vespers</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#lotus">The Lotus-Worshippers</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mast">The Broken Mast</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bruges">The Lace-maker of Bruges</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#rheims">Rheims</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#calvary">Calvary</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#west">Gone West</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#peace">Peace</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#treasure">Hidden Treasure</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#sunset">A River Sunset</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#madonna">The Madonna</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#idol">An Idol in a Shop Window</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#forest">In a Forest</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bowl">The Golden Bowl</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mountain">On a Swiss Mountain</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#garden">The Nun's Garden</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#summertime">You Went Away in Summertime</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#poet">To a Modern Poet</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mystic">The Mystic</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#episcopi">Ad Episcopi Collegium</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#song">A Song of the Homeland</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mirror">The Mirror</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#littlesong">I Made a Little Song</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#birds">Birds</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bluebird">The Bluebird's Wing</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#answer">The Answer</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+WILD GRAPE
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+<A HREF="#grape">Wild Grape</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#statue">To a Greek Statue</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#omnipresence">Omnipresence</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#cathedral">My Cathedral</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#foundry">The Foundry</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#swiss">Swiss Sketches&mdash;</A><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">(I)  After Sunset on Jura</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1.5em">(II)  Lucerne</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">(III)  Lake Leman</SPAN><BR>
+<A HREF="#visions">Visions&mdash;</A><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I, II, III, IV</SPAN><BR>
+<A HREF="#prints">Japanese Prints&mdash;</A><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">(I)  The Lady with the Yellow Fan</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1.5em">(II)  Caged Birds</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">(III)  Wisteria</SPAN><BR>
+<A HREF="#palace">A Venetian Palace</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#iris">Japanese Iris</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#lovesongs">Japanese Love-Songs</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#jade">Cups of Jade</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#loon">The Loon's Cry</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#prayer">Prayer</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="foreword"></A>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+FOREWORD
+</H3>
+
+<P>
+Poetry has been defined as "Thought touched by Emotion," and I know no
+better working definition, although no doubt more scientific and
+accurate ones could be found.  The best poets of all ages seem to have
+had this ideal plainly before them, whether consciously or
+unconsciously, and I cannot see how modern poets can dispense with
+either thought or emotion if they are to write real poetry.  For one is
+not enough without the other.  Take for example the first lines of
+Master's "Spoon River Anthology."
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,<BR>
+The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?<BR>
+All, all, are sleeping on the hill,<BR>
+One passed in a fever,<BR>
+One was buried in a mine,<BR>
+One was killed in a brawl,<BR>
+One died in a jail,<BR>
+One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife,<BR>
+All, all are sleeping on the hill."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+This sounds tragic indeed, but seems to have aroused no emotion on the
+part of the poet and excites none in his readers.  In fact, through the
+whole poem, emotion is held in check with a strong hand, and only
+allowed to show itself in some distorted cynicism.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Let us take an example of the opposite extreme where emotion, whether
+real or fancied, has stifled thought.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O World!  O Men!  O Sun! to you I cry,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">I raise my song defiant, proud, victorious,</SPAN><BR>
+And send this clarion ringing down the sky:<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">"I love, I love, I love, and Love is glorious!"</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The definition chosen need not hamper the most "modern" poet nor
+restrict his choice of subject, for there are few things that cannot
+awaken both thought and emotion if looked at in the right way.  An iron
+foundry and a Venetian palace have immense possibilities of arousing
+both elements, and perhaps the foundry has the greater power.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The modern poet has joined the great army of seekers after freedom,
+that is, he refuses to observe the old conventions in regard to his
+subjects and his method of treating them.  He refuses to be bound by
+the old restrictions of rhyme and metre, and goes far afield in search
+of material on which to work.  The boldest of the new school would
+throw overboard all the old forms and write only in free verse, rythmic
+prose or whatever he may wish to call it.  The conservative, on the
+other hand, clings stubbornly to the old conventions, and will have
+nothing to do with vers libre or anything that savours of it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But vers libre, like the motor-car and aeroplane, has come to stay
+whether we like it or no.  It is not really a new thing, although put
+to a new use, for some of the greatest poetry of the Hebrews and other
+Oriental nations was written in a form of free verse.  At the present
+time the number of those using it as medium of expression is steadily
+increasing.  In France, Italy, the United States, and even in
+conservative England, the increase in the number of poems recently
+published in this form has been remarkable.  The modernists hail this
+tendency as the dawn of a new era of freedom, while the conservatives
+see poetry falling into decadence and ruin.  The right view of the case
+probably lies, as it generally does, between the extremes.  There is
+much beauty to be found in walking in beaten paths or rambling in
+fenced-in fields and woods, but perhaps one who sails the skies in an
+aeroplane may see visions and feel emotions that never come to those
+who wander on foot along the old paths of the woods and fields below.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it seems to me that it matters little in what form a poem is cast
+so long as the form suits the subject, and does not hinder the freedom
+of the poet's thought and emotion.  And I am old-fashioned enough to
+expect that beauty will be revealed as well.  Out of this union of
+thought, emotion and beauty, we could scarcely fail to get strength
+also, which term many modern poets use to cover an ugliness that is
+often nothing but disguised weakness.  But form alone will not make
+even a semblance of poetry as the following lines, unimpeachable in
+form, from Sir Walter Scott plainly show:
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"Then filled with pity and remorse,<BR>
+He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Nor can I conceive of more beautiful poetry than the following, by
+Richard Aldington, although rhyme and regular metre are absent:
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"And we turn from the music of old,<BR>
+And the hills that we loved and the meads,<BR>
+And we turn from the fiery day,<BR>
+And the lips that were over-sweet;<BR>
+For silently<BR>
+Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,<BR>
+With purple robe<BR>
+Searing the grass as with a sudden flame,<BR>
+Death,<BR>
+Thou hast come upon us."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+And this brings me to the real purpose of this Foreword&mdash;the
+explanation of the title of this book.  On the hills and plains of
+Southern Europe there grows a plant with beautiful indented leaves&mdash;the
+Acanthus.  The Greek artist saw the beauty of these leaves, and, having
+arranged and conventionalized them, carved them upon the capitals of
+the columns which supported the roofs and pediments of his temples and
+public buildings.  Since that time, wherever pillars are used in
+architecture, one does not have far to look to find acanthus leaves
+carved upon them.  In the Roman Forum, in Byzantine churches like Saint
+Sophia or Saint Mark's, in the Mediæval Cathedrals of France.  England
+and Spain, in the Renaissance buildings scattered throughout the world,
+and even in the most modern office-buildings of our great cities, this
+decoration of acanthus is to be found.  And the reason is not far to
+seek.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"A thing of beauty ... will never<BR>
+Pass into nothingness."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+I recently saw a picture of a Corinthian column of a ruined Greek
+temple standing against the sky, and broken fragments of its fellows
+lying at its foot, with wild vines climbing over them.  And who could
+say that one was more beautiful than the other?  The carved acanthus
+leaves upon the column were beautiful because of their symmetry,
+harmony of light and shade and clear-cut outline, but the wild grape
+was perhaps more beautiful still in its natural freedom.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So in this little book will be found some poems in the old conventional
+forms and some others in free rhythms, in which the author has tried in
+a humble way, to mingle elements of thought, emotion and beauty.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+F.O.C.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+BISHOP'S COLLEGE<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;LENNOXVILLE, QUE.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="acanthus"></A>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+ACANTHUS
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+ACANTHUS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Beneath the sculptured marble portico<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of a Greek temple, white against the sky,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Carved capitals on pillars rising high</SPAN><BR>
+Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow.<BR>
+Proudly each column in the stately row<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie</SPAN><BR>
+Where they were carved two thousand years ago.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home</SPAN><BR>
+Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome,</SPAN><BR>
+Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth,<BR>
+Thou hast the secret of undying youth.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="gods"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE OLD GODS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Old  gods are dead; their broken shrines are lying<BR>
+Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground;<BR>
+I see lost beauty with each sunset dying,<BR>
+I hear lost music in each echoing sound.<BR>
+Old gods are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer<BR>
+Beside old altars where our offerings lay,&mdash;<BR>
+False gods perhaps,&mdash;but what have you to offer<BR>
+Who batter down old temples in a day?<BR>
+Old gods are dead; but still the sunset lingers,<BR>
+The moonlight still its store of treasure yields,<BR>
+Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers,<BR>
+And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And human hearts still long for human love.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="obelisk"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE OBELISK<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+(<I>Place de la Concorde, Paris</I>)<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+There rise the palace walls as fair to-day,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As when with arms and banners gleaming bright,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The pageantry of royal pomp and might</SPAN><BR>
+Passed through the guarded gates and went its way.<BR>
+The blue, translucent beams of morning play<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And here, where blind red fury reached its height,</SPAN><BR>
+An ancient column rises grim and gray.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow</SPAN><BR>
+About its feet of life's unresting sea;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low:</SPAN><BR>
+Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="graybirds"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+GRAY BIRDS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Gray birds of passage from another sky<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Are those long hours I sit and wait for you;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Borne by strong wings across the sunlit blue</SPAN><BR>
+They go&mdash;dark flecks of shadow drifting by.<BR>
+Sometimes they bring a song&mdash;a joyful cry,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As morn and eve your coming used to do;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But sometimes plaintive notes of sorrow too,</SPAN><BR>
+Amid the joyful echoes wail and die.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Then as I watch the beating of the wings<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That seek a haven by far northern lakes,</SPAN><BR>
+And catch the note of some bird-heart that sings,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or hear the plaintive cry of one that breaks,</SPAN><BR>
+I turn once more to half-forgotten things,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the old longing in my heart awakes.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="tea"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+AFTER TEA<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+See how the agèd trembling hands of Day<BR>
+Spill over the white cloth and tea-cups blue,<BR>
+Red wine from his last goblet poured away;<BR>
+So let me by the window sit with you,<BR>
+And watch the sun drop down behind the trees,<BR>
+Or gleam across the snow&mdash;a crimson bar;<BR>
+For in still, mystic moments such as these<BR>
+Down unknown by-ways we may wander far.<BR>
+The crimson turns to purple on the snow,<BR>
+The orange sky grown gray, and glimmering lights<BR>
+Of scattered star-lamps through the darkness glow;<BR>
+But neither Night nor Death my soul affrights,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For clear there gleams, all earthly dark above,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The ever-burning star-lamp of your love.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="cloister"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Through a long cloister where the gloom of night<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Lingers in sombre silence all the day,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Across worn pavements crumbling to decay</SPAN><BR>
+We wandered, blindly groping for the light.<BR>
+A door swung wide, and splendour infinite<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay,</SPAN><BR>
+And a great minster's glory met our sight.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Blindly along life's cloister do we grope,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">We seek a gate that leads to life immortal,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">We see it loom before us dim and vast,</SPAN><BR>
+And doubt's dark shadow's veil the light of hope:<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And light unfading meets our gaze at last.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="vespers"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CATHEDRAL VESPERS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The gloom of night creeps down the shadowy choir,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But through the great rose-window's gorgeous bloom</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Red shafts of sunset fall upon a tomb,</SPAN><BR>
+And makes the gray stone burn&mdash;a crimson pyre.<BR>
+The creeping tide of darkness rises higher,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tall ghostly pillars through the shadows loom,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And from dim altars through the minster's gloom,</SPAN><BR>
+Pale yellow gleams the guttering candles' fire.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Sudden from out the shadow streams a song,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">&mdash;A sword of sound that cleaves the dark in twain&mdash;</SPAN><BR>
+And rings and glows triumphant, swift and strong,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Victorious over sorrow, death and pain;</SPAN><BR>
+And golden visions pass before my soul<BR>
+As through dim arches the last echoes roll.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="lotus"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE LOTUS-WORSHIPPERS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+With silent feet in trailing robes of white<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">They crept from shadowy temples, far beyond</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tall bamboo groves, to seek the lotus-pond</SPAN><BR>
+That gleamed like some dark jewel through the night<BR>
+Upon great Buddha's breast.  The crimson height<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Echoed their chanting as the morning dawned,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And each bud, breaking from its silver bond,</SPAN><BR>
+Lifted its cup to catch the golden light.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And here beside this mist-bound northern lake,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Encircled by tall spires of Gothic firs,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The ancient beauty-worship wakes and stirs</SPAN><BR>
+Within me, as I watch the morning break<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon white lily-buds, whose lips agleam</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Whisper the secret of the world-old dream.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mast"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE BROKEN MAST<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Above a crescent beach of silver sand,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand</SPAN><BR>
+Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore<BR>
+The main-mast from the ship.  Above it soar<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land</SPAN><BR>
+Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And through long summer days it dreams old dreams<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing</SPAN><BR>
+Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying</SPAN><BR>
+It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,<BR>
+And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bruges"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Idle and still.  Against the sunset glow</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tall poplars stand, and silent barges go</SPAN><BR>
+Along the green canal that wanders by.<BR>
+A lean, red finger pointing to the sky,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The spire of Notre Dame.  Above a row</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die,</SPAN><BR>
+The ancient belfry guards the square below.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+One August eve she stood in that same square<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">To see her soldier passing down the street.</SPAN><BR>
+To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+AUGUST, 1915.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="rheims"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+RHEIMS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+In royal splendour rose the house of prayer,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night</SPAN><BR>
+Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair.<BR>
+Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And on the altar, like a beacon light,</SPAN><BR>
+The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For thou, O Rheims art prey of evil powers;</SPAN><BR>
+But with a voice a thousand times more loud<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers,</SPAN><BR>
+Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim<BR>
+Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+JUNE, 1916.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="calvary"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CALVARY<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The women stood and watched while thick, black night<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Enclosed the awful tragedy.  Afar</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Three crosses stood, against a single bar</SPAN><BR>
+Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light.<BR>
+No hint of Easter dawn.  In all the height<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of that dark heaven, not a single star</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To whisper;&mdash;Love and Life the victors are.</SPAN><BR>
+It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">Across the mighty tragedy is drawn.</SPAN><BR>
+But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb,</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">And voices shout at last&mdash;The Dawn!  The Dawn.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+AUGUST, 1916.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="west"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+GONE WEST<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+<I>Dedicated to Lieutenant Rodolphe Lemieux, killed in action August 29,
+1918.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I do not think of them&mdash;our glorious dead&mdash;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As laying tired heads upon the breast</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest;</SPAN><BR>
+I do not see them in a narrow bed<BR>
+Of alien earth by their own blood dyed red,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But see in their own simple phrase&mdash;Gone West&mdash;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The words of knights upon a holy quest,</SPAN><BR>
+Who saw the light and followed where it led.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Gone West!  Scarred warrior hosts go marching by,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Their longing faces turned to greet the light</SPAN><BR>
+That glows and burns upon the western sky.<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Leaving behind the darkness of the night,</SPAN><BR>
+The long day over and the battle won,<BR>
+They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="peace"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+PEACE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now Peace at last is hovering o'er the world<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On silver wings, and golden trumpets blow.</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Home from the long crusade the warriors go,&mdash;</SPAN><BR>
+Victorious knights with banners wide unfurled,<BR>
+Bow down your head, for these have passed where swirled<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Great tides of darkness ebbing too and fro;</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Their eyes have seen, 'mid fiery tempests' glow,</SPAN><BR>
+How youth at Death its dauntless challenge hurled.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And these are they who saw the Holy Grail,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Brimming with youthful blood like ruddy wine</SPAN><BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Poured out in sacrifice.  The light divine</SPAN><BR>
+Before whose awful glow they did not quail<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Now beckons us; and shall our footsteps fail</SPAN><BR>
+To follow where they set the blood-stained sign?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+NOVEMBER, 1918.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="treasure"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+HIDDEN TREASURE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes,<BR>
+Do you see the blue of the summer skies?<BR>
+Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream,<BR>
+As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam?<BR>
+Then come, come away<BR>
+From the shadowy bay,<BR>
+And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play;<BR>
+For we are two pirates, fierce and bold,<BR>
+And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A roving craft is our red canoe,<BR>
+O pirate chief with the eyes of blue;<BR>
+So hoist your flag with the skull on high,<BR>
+And out we'll sail where the treasures lie.<BR>
+For in days of old<BR>
+Came pirates bold,<BR>
+With a Spanish galleon's captured gold;<BR>
+And their boat was wrecked on the river strand,<BR>
+And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now steady all as we dash along,<BR>
+The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong;<BR>
+And soon we'll drift with the water's flow<BR>
+Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below.<BR>
+O, cool and dim,<BR>
+'Neath its foam-flecked brim,<BR>
+Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim;<BR>
+So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe<BR>
+For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now home once more to the shadowy bay,<BR>
+For we've captured the gold of the summer's day,<BR>
+And emeralds green from the banks along,<BR>
+And silver bars from the white-throat's song.<BR>
+No pirates bore<BR>
+Such a glittering store<BR>
+From the treasure ships of the days of yore,<BR>
+As the spoils we have won on the shining stream,<BR>
+While we drifted along in a golden dream.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="sunset"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+A RIVER SUNSET<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Red sunlight fades from wood and town,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The western sky is crimson-dyed,</SPAN><BR>
+Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Upon the river's gleaming tide.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The hills' clear outlines melt away<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or veil themselves in purple light,</SPAN><BR>
+And burning thoughts that vexed the day<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Become fair visions of the night.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="madonna"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE MADONNA<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the midst of the surging crowd;</SPAN><BR>
+Her hands were warped with the years of toil,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And her young form bent and bowed.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">At the throng that round her pressed;</SPAN><BR>
+But her face was the face of the Mother of God<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As she looked at the babe on her breast.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="idol"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;</SPAN><BR>
+And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The whole day long, through the ancient square.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Here by the window he patiently waits</SPAN><BR>
+For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">In the days of old at the temple gates.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For his heart is bronze, and he does not know</SPAN><BR>
+That his temple has been for a thousand years<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+So here he sits through the nights and the days,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the sun goes up and down the sky;</SPAN><BR>
+But he often looks with a wistful gaze<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">At the crowds that always pass him by.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of his poppy-land of long ago,</SPAN><BR>
+Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the kneeling throng he used to know.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of human folks that pass him by;</SPAN><BR>
+Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,&mdash;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the sun once more goes down the sky.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="forest"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+IN A FOREST<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Silver birch and dusky pine,<BR>
+Reaching up to find the light<BR>
+From the forest's gloomy night,<BR>
+From the thicket where entwine<BR>
+Stunted shrub and creeping vine,<BR>
+From the damp where witch-fire glows<BR>
+And the poison fungus grows,<BR>
+High you lift your heads, O trees,<BR>
+To the kisses of the breeze,<BR>
+To the far-off vaulted sky,<BR>
+To the clouds that pass you by,<BR>
+To the sun that shines on high.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+From the dusk of earthly night<BR>
+Strive, O soul, to reach the light.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bowl"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE GOLDEN BOWL<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+<I>On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among
+Eastern nations was a symbol of life.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+In a dream he seems to lie<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gazing at the golden bowl,</SPAN><BR>
+Where dim visions passing by<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Whisper vaguely to his soul.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Restless phantoms come and go<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Crowned with cypress or with bay;</SPAN><BR>
+Sad or merry, swift or slow,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Tread they down the winding way.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Still the pageant winds along,&mdash;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Youth and age and love and lust,</SPAN><BR>
+Till at last the motley throng<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Fades and crumbles into dust.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+All in vain upon the bowl<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;</SPAN><BR>
+He shall read its hidden scroll<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Only when it shattered lies.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+For a wondrous light shall gleam<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From the scattered fragments born.</SPAN><BR>
+Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Followed by a golden morn.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mountain"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Lad, the mighty hills are calling,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Hills of promise gleaming bright,</SPAN><BR>
+And the floods of sunshine falling<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Fill their deepest vales with light.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+There the young dawn's golden fire<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beckons to a brighter day,</SPAN><BR>
+Untrod paths of youth's desire,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Heights unconquered far away.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Steep and dark and spectre-haunted<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Winds the pathway to the height;</SPAN><BR>
+Sturdy youth with heart undaunted<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Deems the toiling short and light.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Short or long, an easy Master,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gives each tired toiler rest,</SPAN><BR>
+Counts not failure or disaster<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If the striving be the best.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Mates of old must soothe their pain,</SPAN><BR>
+Mindless of whate'er befalls you<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If but honour still remain.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="garden"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE NUN'S GARDEN<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+They have made me a lovely garden<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With walls that are rugged and gray;</SPAN><BR>
+They have filled it with pinks and roses<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And lilies that bloom but a day;</SPAN><BR>
+But the walls are so high and frowning,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the paths are so smooth and straight,</SPAN><BR>
+And even their smallest winding<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Leads straight to the chapel gate.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I have planted a bed of pansies<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Along by the chapel wall,</SPAN><BR>
+But though I have watered and weeded<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">They never have blossomed at all.</SPAN><BR>
+The sunshine of God cannot fall there,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For the chapel tower is too high;</SPAN><BR>
+So under its cold, gray shadow<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">My poor little blossoms die.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The Mother of God&mdash;in marble&mdash;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Gleams white where the willows toss,</SPAN><BR>
+And at the far end of the pathway<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The dear Christ hangs on the cross;</SPAN><BR>
+And when the vespers are over,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If I have not sinned all day,</SPAN><BR>
+I may walk to the end of the garden<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And kneel by the cross and pray.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+But oh, for the wild, wild garden<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">That I knew in the days gone by,</SPAN><BR>
+Where the birches and elms and maples<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Stretched up to the wind-swept sky;</SPAN><BR>
+Where, murmuring silver music,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The brook through the ferny dell</SPAN><BR>
+Ran down to the fields of clover,&mdash;<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">But hush, there's the vesper bell!</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="summertime"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+YOU WENT AWAY IN SUMMERTIME<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+You went away in summertime<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When leaves and flowers were young,</SPAN><BR>
+And birds still lingered in the fields<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With many songs unsung.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'm glad it was in summertime<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When skies were clear and blue,</SPAN><BR>
+I could not say good-bye to you<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And bear the winter too.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="poet"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+TO A MODERN POET<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why must you sing of sorrow<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When the world is so full of woe?</SPAN><BR>
+Why must you sing of the ugly?<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For the ugly and sad I know.</SPAN><BR>
+Why will you sing of railways,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of Iron and Steel and Coal,</SPAN><BR>
+And the din of the smoky cities?<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For these will not feed my soul.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+But sing to me songs of beauty<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To gladden my tired eyes,&mdash;</SPAN><BR>
+The beauty of waving forest,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of meadows and sunlit skies;</SPAN><BR>
+Sing me of childish laughter,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of cradles and painted toys,</SPAN><BR>
+Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the shouting of bathing boys.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+For the earth has a store of beauty<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Deep hid from our blinded eyes,</SPAN><BR>
+And only the true-born poet<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Knows just where the treasure lies.</SPAN><BR>
+So lead me from paths that are ugly,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From the dust of the city street.</SPAN><BR>
+To paths that are fringed with flowers,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Where the sky and the meadows meet.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And though Sorrow may walk beside me<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">To the far, far end of the road,</SPAN><BR>
+If Beauty but beckon me onward,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Less heavy will seem my load;</SPAN><BR>
+And led in the paths of beauty,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The world from its strife will cease;</SPAN><BR>
+For I know that the paths of beauty<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Lead on to the paths of peace.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mystic"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE MYSTIC<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The mystic sits by the sacred stream<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Watching the sun as it mounts the sky;</SPAN><BR>
+And life to him is a haunting dream<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Or a motley pageant passing by.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Sorrow and joy go on their way,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Passion and lust and love and hate;</SPAN><BR>
+Only a band of mummers they,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Blindly led by the hand of fate.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Though the pageant is real and himself the dream,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though men are born and strive and die,</SPAN><BR>
+Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Watching the sun go down the sky.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="episcopi"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+AD EPISCOPI COLLEGIUM<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Here in the beautiful valley, here where the fair rivers meeting,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Mingle their waters in silence and wander afar to the sea,</SPAN><BR>
+Now does thy son returning offer thee homage and greeting,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Now do my wandering footsteps turn, O Mother, to thee.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Gleam in the light of the sunset cross and turret and tower,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Mirrored majestic and silent down by the willow-clad shore;</SPAN><BR>
+Far through the valley resounding, telling the evensong hour,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Echoes the old bell's tolling, calling me back once more.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Here in the halls where I lingered, there in the woods where I wandered,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow,</SPAN><BR>
+Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I pondered<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Deeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap;</SPAN><BR>
+Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night;</SPAN><BR>
+Yet will my heart remember both Mother and sons forever,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Far though the pathway may lead me, swift though the years in their flight.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="song"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+A SONG OF THE HOMELAND<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'll sing you a song of the Homeland,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though the strains be of little worth,</SPAN><BR>
+A song of our own loved Homeland,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the noblest land upon earth;</SPAN><BR>
+Where the tide of the sea from oceans three<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Beats high in its triple might,</SPAN><BR>
+Where the winds are born in a southern morn<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And die in a polar night.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'll sing you a song of the Eastland,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the land where our fathers died,</SPAN><BR>
+Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Are sleeping side by side;</SPAN><BR>
+Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Of the mighty river plain,</SPAN><BR>
+Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And the old faith lives again.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'll sing you a song of the Westland<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Where the magic cities rise,</SPAN><BR>
+And the prairies clothed with their golden grain<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Stretch under the azure skies;</SPAN><BR>
+Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Far north in the arctic land,</SPAN><BR>
+And the northern light in its mystic flight<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Flares over the golden strand.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And I'll sing of the men of the Homeland<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">From the north and east and west,</SPAN><BR>
+The men who went to the Homeland's call,<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">(Ah, God, we have given our best!)</SPAN><BR>
+But not in vain are our heroes slain<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">If under the darkened skies,</SPAN><BR>
+All hand in hand from strand to strand<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A sin-purged nation rise.</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mirror"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE MIRROR<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Your mirror, love, reflects your smile<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">As morn-flushed skies the coming dawn,</SPAN><BR>
+But oh, how blank the weary while<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">When you are gone!</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+My life's a mirror; with you near<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">'Tis filled with joy the live-long day,</SPAN><BR>
+But oh, how meaningless and drear<BR>
+<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">With you away!</SPAN><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="littlesong"></A>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+  I MADE A LITTLE SONG
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I made a little song to-day,<BR>
+And then I wandered down Broadway,<BR>
+And saw the strange mad people run<BR>
+And dance about me in the sun,<BR>
+Or dive into the Underground<BR>
+Like rabbits frightened by the sound<BR>
+Of their own scampering through the grass;<BR>
+I watched a thousand people pass,<BR>
+But not a one did I hear say&mdash;<BR>
+I made a little song to-day.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I made a little song to-day,<BR>
+It sang beside me all the way<BR>
+Until I reached the lower town,<BR>
+Where crowds went surging up and down.<BR>
+Their eyes were hard and faces white,<BR>
+But some of them looked glad and bright,<BR>
+Because the Bulls&mdash;or was it Bears?&mdash;<BR>
+Had brought them gold for worthless shares;<BR>
+But I was happier than they;&mdash;<BR>
+I made a little song to-day.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="birds"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+BIRDS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I lie beneath a dark green pine<BR>
+Where sunbeams scarcely ever shine,<BR>
+And if I'm still as still can be<BR>
+Shy forest birds come down to me.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Brown thrushes run along the ground,<BR>
+Goldfinches flit without a sound,<BR>
+And humming-birds with ruby throats<BR>
+Alight to smooth their emerald coats.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And when some day alone I lie<BR>
+Beneath the ever-changing sky,<BR>
+I'm glad to know the birds will come<BR>
+To welcome me to my new home.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+For I will lie so still that they<BR>
+Will linger by me all the day,<BR>
+And lulled at evening by their song<BR>
+I shall not find the darkness long.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bluebird"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE BLUEBIRD'S WING<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+One day I saw the bluebird's wing<BR>
+Agleam upon a waving sea<BR>
+Of emerald-coloured timothy.<BR>
+We walked together&mdash;you and I&mdash;<BR>
+We saw the bluebird gliding by;<BR>
+He came so near&mdash;the mad, wild thing&mdash;<BR>
+We almost touched his sapphire wing,<BR>
+But ere across our path he flew<BR>
+He rose and vanished in the blue.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+To-day I saw the bluebird's wing;<BR>
+I heard wood-thrushes round me sing;<BR>
+Wind-blown across the April sky,<BR>
+Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by;<BR>
+And on the sky-line's silver sheen<BR>
+White birches danced in frills of green,<BR>
+And all the world was mad with spring.<BR>
+But you were miles and miles away;<BR>
+The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="answer"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE ANSWER<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why do I lie upon the ground<BR>
+And listen to the silver sound<BR>
+Of water flowing from a spring?<BR>
+It sings a song I cannot sing.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why am I gazing at the sky<BR>
+To watch the clouds go trailing by?<BR>
+&mdash;Pearl ships upon a sapphire sea&mdash;<BR>
+They seek a land unknown to me.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why do I listen to the song<BR>
+Of pine-boughs singing all day long?<BR>
+The secret that their songs unfold<BR>
+Ten thousand bards have left untold.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="grape"></A>
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+WILD GRAPE
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+WILD GRAPE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Beneath the crawling shadow<BR>
+Of a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten,<BR>
+The wild grape twines amid the fragments<BR>
+Of shattered pillars prone upon the ground,<BR>
+And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures<BR>
+Of faun and youth and maiden,<BR>
+That once stood in the temple pediment,<BR>
+Young, naked, beautiful.<BR>
+In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus<BR>
+leaves of the crumbling columns,<BR>
+And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.<BR>
+The wild bees hum and buzz<BR>
+Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,<BR>
+Under the drowsy noonday sun,<BR>
+That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the thirsting hillside.<BR>
+Wanton and wild,<BR>
+Like an unhappy lover<BR>
+Clinging to the breast of his dead mistress,<BR>
+The vine clings in voluptuous embrace<BR>
+About the naked, pallid forms,<BR>
+And mingles there with the eternal beauty<BR>
+Of youth and age<BR>
+And life and death.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="statue"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+TO A GREEK STATUE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Beautiful statue of Parian marble,<BR>
+Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight,<BR>
+Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon;<BR>
+I follow, I follow.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Slender and white is your beautiful body,<BR>
+Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you;<BR>
+Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleeping<BR>
+Is the dream you emprison;&mdash;<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A dream of beauty that lingers forever,<BR>
+A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight,<BR>
+A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters,<BR>
+Reflecting white temples.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow,<BR>
+My dream goes forth with your dream to wander;<BR>
+You lead me into a moonlit garden<BR>
+Beside the Ægean.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+White in the moonlight gleams the temple<BR>
+Cutting the purple sky with its pediment;<BR>
+Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain;<BR>
+Black are the cypress trees.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The gods are asleep in the silent temple;<BR>
+Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand<BR>
+Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating<BR>
+With the bells of the fountain.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses,<BR>
+Not in vain are your white arms lifted;<BR>
+And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal<BR>
+Embrace in the moonlight.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="omnipresence"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+OMNIPRESENCE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+What are the great pine boughs<BR>
+That stretch over me so lovingly<BR>
+Shielding me from the heat?<BR>
+They are the sheltering arms of God,<BR>
+Visible<BR>
+Against white drifting clouds.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And the trailing white clouds,&mdash;<BR>
+What are they?<BR>
+They are the tattered, worn-out clothes,<BR>
+Bordered with broken pearls,<BR>
+Cast off by the angels and archangels,<BR>
+And by God himself.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="cathedral"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+MY CATHEDRAL<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+All my life long I have loved cathedrals;<BR>
+Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches<BR>
+Are the home of peace and beauty,<BR>
+And sometimes, too, of hope.<BR>
+Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glass<BR>
+Shut out the noisy world,<BR>
+And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.<BR>
+Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts;<BR>
+Their blue welling clouds of incense<BR>
+Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers,<BR>
+And their gleaming candles<BR>
+Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And now I have a cathedral all my own.<BR>
+It has great pine trunks for pillars,<BR>
+For painted windows red and golden leaves;<BR>
+White slender birches are the singing-boys,<BR>
+And the great organ the winds of God<BR>
+Playing among the pine-boughs.<BR>
+The prim little spruces are virgin nuns,<BR>
+Telling their beads in drops of dew;<BR>
+And the bare broken tree-stumps<BR>
+Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms,<BR>
+But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.<BR>
+The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me;<BR>
+The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell;<BR>
+From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;<BR>
+And from the great high altar of eternal rock,<BR>
+God himself looks forth<BR>
+In the red glory of the dawn.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="foundry"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE FOUNDRY<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Two monsters,<BR>
+Iron and Coal,<BR>
+Sleep in the darkness.<BR>
+A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,<BR>
+And they awake hissing and writhing,<BR>
+And spew forth blood-red vomit<BR>
+In streams like fiery serpents.<BR>
+Then from the reeking pools<BR>
+A monstrous brood is born,<BR>
+Black, strong, beautiful.<BR>
+But we turn away our tired eyes,<BR>
+And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="swiss"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+SWISS SKETCHES<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+I.&mdash;AFTER SUNSET ON JURA<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The Alps&mdash;<BR>
+A mighty string of pearls<BR>
+Which Day has laid aside&mdash;<BR>
+Flaunt their alluring beauty<BR>
+Upon the purple velvet of deep valleys,<BR>
+Until night,<BR>
+Stretching out black greedy fingers,<BR>
+Steals them one by one.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+II.&mdash;LUCERNE<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+From staring eyes<BR>
+Of hotel windows,<BR>
+From flaunting rich<BR>
+And cringing poor,<BR>
+From men and women<BR>
+Drunken with wine, passion and money,<BR>
+From tired Cook's tourists<BR>
+Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds,<BR>
+From shrieking steamers<BR>
+Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds,<BR>
+From bands beating out brazen music<BR>
+Under the twisted plane-trees,<BR>
+From all that is poor and rich and ugly,<BR>
+I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills<BR>
+Which are outlined upon orange and crimson<BR>
+By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight,<BR>
+And there my soul finds peace.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+III.&mdash;LAKE LEMAN<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Like the High Priest of Jehovah<BR>
+The lake, for the Festival of Beauty<BR>
+Puts upon its blue garment<BR>
+A gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire;<BR>
+My eyes can scarcely bear its glory,<BR>
+As it burns crimson and scarlet<BR>
+On jasper and flame-colored sard,<BR>
+On ruby, red as sunset flame,<BR>
+And topaz shot with golden lights.<BR>
+Like the eternal fire of distant stars&mdash;<BR>
+Blue, green and white,<BR>
+Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire,<BR>
+Jacinth and beryl,<BR>
+Onyx and green-banded agate,<BR>
+And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers.<BR>
+Morning and evening<BR>
+On the day of the great Festival<BR>
+The High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate,<BR>
+And the chosen people, blinded by its glory,<BR>
+Bow down and worship.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="visions"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+VISIONS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+I.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I saw a vision of beauty.<BR>
+My eyes looked through the mists of ages,<BR>
+Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was God.<BR>
+And I saw the waves of the blue Ægean,<BR>
+Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled,<BR>
+And I heard the singing of the water,<BR>
+As of playing of distant pipes<BR>
+By slender shepherd lads among the hills.<BR>
+Then I turned away from the shore<BR>
+And I saw the pediment of a great temple<BR>
+Standing white against the sky,<BR>
+And beneath the pediment rows of marble columns<BR>
+Like giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty.<BR>
+Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees,<BR>
+Statues of gods and goddesses, youths and maidens,<BR>
+Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten brass.<BR>
+My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway,<BR>
+And I went a worshipper to the great temple,<BR>
+Whose burnished doors stood wide ajar<BR>
+Gleaming like the portal of a dream city;<BR>
+I lifted my arms in adoration,<BR>
+And my soul drank its fill<BR>
+From the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+II.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I saw a vision of faith.<BR>
+My eyes were turned to a mediæval city<BR>
+Of crowded low-roofed houses,<BR>
+From which there rose a great cathedral,<BR>
+With walls of chiselled stone<BR>
+And spires that pierced into the blue.<BR>
+Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brain<BR>
+Long years in wood and stone,<BR>
+Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their God.<BR>
+I entered in,<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And saw the walls agleam with painted glass,<BR>
+More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings;<BR>
+I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea,<BR>
+And the voices of the singing-boys<BR>
+Like soft ripples on the velvet sand.<BR>
+With golden cross and smoking censers<BR>
+And priests in robes of scarlet and purple,<BR>
+The procession passed along;<BR>
+Then the great sweating throng<BR>
+Bowed low upon the stony floor before the Host,<BR>
+And when the echoing music<BR>
+Had vanished in the soaring vault above,<BR>
+The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloom<BR>
+Comforted, into the golden sun-light.<BR>
+My soul, too, was comforted,<BR>
+For it had drunk deep<BR>
+From the pure mediæval well of faith.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+III.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I saw a vision of love.<BR>
+Upon the field of battle<BR>
+Amid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapour<BR>
+Red streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground,<BR>
+Generously,<BR>
+Joyfully,<BR>
+That the world might not die from its festering wounds,<BR>
+But might drink health and life<BR>
+From these pure, youthful streams.<BR>
+Then I stood awed and dumb,<BR>
+For here was love supreme.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+IV.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I saw a vision of death.<BR>
+Silence held my feet with clinging hands,<BR>
+And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes.<BR>
+Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadows<BR>
+A great night-moth with sable folded wings;<BR>
+It seemed asleep upon a purple flower,<BR>
+But as I watched,<BR>
+Slowly it spread its wings,<BR>
+And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn,<BR>
+And all the world was drenched in showers of light.<BR>
+Then with his flaming wings outspread<BR>
+The great moth sailed away,<BR>
+Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea,<BR>
+Leaving behind a wake of golden light.<BR>
+And I know that my vision of death<BR>
+Was only a vision of beauty.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="prints"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+JAPANESE PRINTS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+I.&mdash;THE LADY WITH THE YELLOW FAN<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O little lady with the yellow fan<BR>
+Why are you so sad?<BR>
+Why does a tear stand<BR>
+Like a tea-flower bud upon your cheek?<BR>
+Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk,<BR>
+Your slippers are embroidered with gems,<BR>
+A gold and emerald butterfly has lighted in your hair,<BR>
+Your serving-maid stands near<BR>
+Awaiting your command,<BR>
+And if you lifted but one slender finger<BR>
+A chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace.<BR>
+Why are you so sad?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+It is because the ships beside the shore<BR>
+Spread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze;<BR>
+The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands,<BR>
+And there is a gleam of swords and armour,<BR>
+For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+II.&mdash;CAGED BIRDS<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+There are yellow birds within the cage;<BR>
+Beside its gilded bars there stand the women<BR>
+Whom the Great Prince loves to honour.<BR>
+They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair,<BR>
+And live in a pretty pink and yellow house.<BR>
+But the women look not at the captive singing-birds,<BR>
+Nor listen to their song,<BR>
+Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves,<BR>
+Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+III.&mdash;WISTERIA<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why do you peer at me, old man,<BR>
+With eyes half shut,<BR>
+From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?<BR>
+Your face is but a mask,<BR>
+Showing neither joy nor sorrow;<BR>
+But I know you bend your head to listen<BR>
+When the wild geese go honking towards the south,<BR>
+And your eyes grow wide with sadness,<BR>
+When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.<BR>
+You, too, love beauty,<BR>
+Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts,<BR>
+Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="palace"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+A VENETIAN PALACE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+In quivering translucent light,<BR>
+Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky,<BR>
+Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water,<BR>
+Sleeps Beauty,<BR>
+Turned to stone by a miracle of art.<BR>
+And though she never stirs,<BR>
+But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe<BR>
+Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white,<BR>
+We come from far-off cities,<BR>
+And we turn to her our hungry eyes,<BR>
+Even away from sunlit sky and sea.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="iris"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+JAPANESE IRIS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A great prince of the ancient days<BR>
+Once loved a little geisha girl,<BR>
+Who wore a silken robe,<BR>
+Blue as the waters of the lily-pond.<BR>
+But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island,<BR>
+And the little geisha girl<BR>
+Never put on her robe of blue again.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And you, O purple iris with the golden bands,<BR>
+Are the soul of the Great Prince;<BR>
+And you, O slender one,<BR>
+Blue as lapis lazuli,<BR>
+Are the soul of the little dancing-girl;<BR>
+And you nestle at last<BR>
+Beside your stately purple Prince,<BR>
+Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="lovesongs"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+JAPANESE LOVE-SONGS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+(<I>In the Hokku manner</I>)<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+I.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The white lotus-flower<BR>
+Grows in the depths of the pool,<BR>
+Love grows in my heart.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+II.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The peony flames crimson.<BR>
+My heart's blood is far redder<BR>
+Than its flame.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+III.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms.<BR>
+Mist and drizzle of rain.<BR>
+Where art thou?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+IV.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Darkness.  Shadows in my soul.<BR>
+The vision of your face.<BR>
+Dawn and music.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+V.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Hush of night.  Perfumed breath of night.<BR>
+A moth with flaming wings.<BR>
+Come beloved.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="jade"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CUPS OF JADE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys;<BR>
+The little wooden bridge,<BR>
+Where the waterfall rings its silver bells,<BR>
+Is a bow of darkness;<BR>
+The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet;<BR>
+A cloud of night-birds<BR>
+Dots the orange sky.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+All day our paths have led us side by side<BR>
+Along the steep hot highways.<BR>
+It is cool evening now,<BR>
+And the temple bells call you one way<BR>
+And the silence calls me another.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+We come to the white door-posts of your house,<BR>
+We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves.<BR>
+We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drink<BR>
+From a cup of sea-green jade.<BR>
+Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter,<BR>
+For I know that to-morrow<BR>
+My path will not lead over the steep hill,<BR>
+Nor yours down to the deep valley,<BR>
+For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="loon"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE LOON'S CRY<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Outside the tent<BR>
+Darkness and giant trees swaying in the wind.<BR>
+The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep.<BR>
+And far across the lazy lapping waves,<BR>
+Above the crooning of the wind,<BR>
+I hear a wild loon crying,<BR>
+Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Inside the tent<BR>
+Your gentle breathing,<BR>
+Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon;<BR>
+Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry,<BR>
+But now it is only the voice of Loneliness<BR>
+Bidding me farewell,<BR>
+As it passes away into the night.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+You stir in your sleep softly<BR>
+And turn your face to me,&mdash;<BR>
+And the loon cries no more.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="prayer"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+PRAYER<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+I.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple<BR>
+And played the music taught it by the wind,<BR>
+At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain,<BR>
+When the breeze of summer night caressed it,<BR>
+Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea,<BR>
+Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.<BR>
+And the people,<BR>
+Who never heard the music of the wind,<BR>
+Paused to listen to the wind-bell,<BR>
+And then passed on through the temple gate,<BR>
+With music echoing in their ears.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O Maker of all music,<BR>
+Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center">
+II.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Beyond the temple gate<BR>
+A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.<BR>
+At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast,<BR>
+At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.<BR>
+And the people,<BR>
+Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky,<BR>
+Would linger as they passed from prayer<BR>
+To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool,<BR>
+And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets,<BR>
+With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O Maker of all beauty,<BR>
+Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H5 ALIGN="center">
+Warwick Bro's & Rutter, Limited,<BR>
+Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada.<BR>
+</H5>
+
+<BR><BR><BR><BR>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACANTHUS AND WILD GRAPE ***
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+
diff --git a/33552.txt b/33552.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c1a66eb
--- /dev/null
+++ b/33552.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,1982 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Acanthus and Wild Grape
+
+Author: F. O. Call
+
+Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33552]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACANTHUS AND WILD GRAPE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Acanthus and Wild Grape
+
+
+By
+
+F. O. Call
+
+Author of "In a Belgian Garden"
+
+
+
+
+McCLELLAND & STEWART
+
+Publishers -- Toronto
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1920
+
+BY MCCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED, TORONTO
+
+
+
+
+NOTE: Many of these poems were first published in Canadian Magazines,
+and the Author wishes to thank the publishers of the _University
+Magazine_, the _Canadian Magazine_, the _Westminster_, the _Canadian
+Bookman_, _Canada West_, and the _Mitre_ for permission to reprint.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+ACANTHUS
+
+
+  Foreword
+  Acanthus
+  The Old Gods
+  The Obelisk
+  Gray Birds
+  After Tea
+  Through a Long Cloister
+  Cathedral Vespers
+  The Lotus-Worshippers
+  The Broken Mast
+  The Lace-maker of Burges
+  Rheims
+  Calvary
+  Gone West
+  Peace
+  Hidden Treasure
+  A River Sunset
+  The Madonna
+  An Idol in a Shop Window
+  In a Forest
+  The Golden Bowl
+  On a Swiss Mountain
+  The Nun's Garden
+  You Went Away in Summertime
+  To a Modern Poet
+  The Mystic
+  Ad Episcopi Collegium
+  A Song of the Homeland
+  The Mirror
+  I Made a Little Song
+  Birds
+  The Bluebird's Wing
+  The Answer
+
+
+WILD GRAPE
+
+  Wild Grape
+  To a Greek Statue
+  Omnipresence
+  My Cathedral
+  The Foundry
+  Swiss Sketches--
+      (I)  After Sunset on Jura
+     (II)  Lucerne
+    (III)  Lake Leman
+  Visions--
+    I, II, III, IV
+  Japanese Prints--
+      (I)  The Lady with the Yellow Fan
+     (II)  Caged Birds
+    (III)  Wisteria
+  A Venetian Palace
+  Japanese Iris
+  Japanese Love-Songs
+  Cups of Jade
+  The Loon's Cry
+  Prayer
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+Poetry has been defined as "Thought touched by Emotion," and I know no
+better working definition, although no doubt more scientific and
+accurate ones could be found.  The best poets of all ages seem to have
+had this ideal plainly before them, whether consciously or
+unconsciously, and I cannot see how modern poets can dispense with
+either thought or emotion if they are to write real poetry.  For one is
+not enough without the other.  Take for example the first lines of
+Master's "Spoon River Anthology."
+
+  "Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
+  The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer,
+      the fighter?
+  All, all, are sleeping on the hill,
+  One passed in a fever,
+  One was buried in a mine,
+  One was killed in a brawl,
+  One died in a jail,
+  One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife,
+  All, all are sleeping on the hill."
+
+
+This sounds tragic indeed, but seems to have aroused no emotion on the
+part of the poet and excites none in his readers.  In fact, through the
+whole poem, emotion is held in check with a strong hand, and only
+allowed to show itself in some distorted cynicism.
+
+Let us take an example of the opposite extreme where emotion, whether
+real or fancied, has stifled thought.
+
+  O World!  O Men!  O Sun! to you I cry,
+    I raise my song defiant, proud, victorious,
+  And send this clarion ringing down the sky:
+    "I love, I love, I love, and Love is glorious!"
+
+
+The definition chosen need not hamper the most "modern" poet nor
+restrict his choice of subject, for there are few things that cannot
+awaken both thought and emotion if looked at in the right way.  An iron
+foundry and a Venetian palace have immense possibilities of arousing
+both elements, and perhaps the foundry has the greater power.
+
+The modern poet has joined the great army of seekers after freedom,
+that is, he refuses to observe the old conventions in regard to his
+subjects and his method of treating them.  He refuses to be bound by
+the old restrictions of rhyme and metre, and goes far afield in search
+of material on which to work.  The boldest of the new school would
+throw overboard all the old forms and write only in free verse, rythmic
+prose or whatever he may wish to call it.  The conservative, on the
+other hand, clings stubbornly to the old conventions, and will have
+nothing to do with vers libre or anything that savours of it.
+
+But vers libre, like the motor-car and aeroplane, has come to stay
+whether we like it or no.  It is not really a new thing, although put
+to a new use, for some of the greatest poetry of the Hebrews and other
+Oriental nations was written in a form of free verse.  At the present
+time the number of those using it as medium of expression is steadily
+increasing.  In France, Italy, the United States, and even in
+conservative England, the increase in the number of poems recently
+published in this form has been remarkable.  The modernists hail this
+tendency as the dawn of a new era of freedom, while the conservatives
+see poetry falling into decadence and ruin.  The right view of the case
+probably lies, as it generally does, between the extremes.  There is
+much beauty to be found in walking in beaten paths or rambling in
+fenced-in fields and woods, but perhaps one who sails the skies in an
+aeroplane may see visions and feel emotions that never come to those
+who wander on foot along the old paths of the woods and fields below.
+
+But it seems to me that it matters little in what form a poem is cast
+so long as the form suits the subject, and does not hinder the freedom
+of the poet's thought and emotion.  And I am old-fashioned enough to
+expect that beauty will be revealed as well.  Out of this union of
+thought, emotion and beauty, we could scarcely fail to get strength
+also, which term many modern poets use to cover an ugliness that is
+often nothing but disguised weakness.  But form alone will not make
+even a semblance of poetry as the following lines, unimpeachable in
+form, from Sir Walter Scott plainly show:
+
+  "Then filled with pity and remorse,
+  He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse."
+
+
+Nor can I conceive of more beautiful poetry than the following, by
+Richard Aldington, although rhyme and regular metre are absent:
+
+  "And we turn from the music of old,
+  And the hills that we loved and the meads,
+  And we turn from the fiery day,
+  And the lips that were over-sweet;
+  For silently
+  Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,
+  With purple robe
+  Searing the grass as with a sudden flame,
+  Death,
+  Thou hast come upon us."
+
+
+And this brings me to the real purpose of this Foreword--the
+explanation of the title of this book.  On the hills and plains of
+Southern Europe there grows a plant with beautiful indented leaves--the
+Acanthus.  The Greek artist saw the beauty of these leaves, and, having
+arranged and conventionalized them, carved them upon the capitals of
+the columns which supported the roofs and pediments of his temples and
+public buildings.  Since that time, wherever pillars are used in
+architecture, one does not have far to look to find acanthus leaves
+carved upon them.  In the Roman Forum, in Byzantine churches like Saint
+Sophia or Saint Mark's, in the Mediaeval Cathedrals of France.  England
+and Spain, in the Renaissance buildings scattered throughout the world,
+and even in the most modern office-buildings of our great cities, this
+decoration of acanthus is to be found.  And the reason is not far to
+seek.
+
+  "A thing of beauty ... will never
+  Pass into nothingness."
+
+
+I recently saw a picture of a Corinthian column of a ruined Greek
+temple standing against the sky, and broken fragments of its fellows
+lying at its foot, with wild vines climbing over them.  And who could
+say that one was more beautiful than the other?  The carved acanthus
+leaves upon the column were beautiful because of their symmetry,
+harmony of light and shade and clear-cut outline, but the wild grape
+was perhaps more beautiful still in its natural freedom.
+
+So in this little book will be found some poems in the old conventional
+forms and some others in free rhythms, in which the author has tried in
+a humble way, to mingle elements of thought, emotion and beauty.
+
+F.O.C.
+
+BISHOP'S COLLEGE
+  LENNOXVILLE, QUE.
+
+
+
+
+ACANTHUS
+
+
+
+  ACANTHUS
+
+  Beneath the sculptured marble portico
+    Of a Greek temple, white against the sky,
+    Carved capitals on pillars rising high
+  Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow.
+  Proudly each column in the stately row
+    Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die
+    Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie
+  Where they were carved two thousand years ago.
+
+  Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound
+    By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home
+  Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned
+    Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome,
+  Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth,
+  Thou hast the secret of undying youth.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OLD GODS
+
+  Old  gods are dead; their broken shrines are lying
+  Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground;
+  I see lost beauty with each sunset dying,
+  I hear lost music in each echoing sound.
+  Old gods are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer
+  Beside old altars where our offerings lay,--
+  False gods perhaps,--but what have you to offer
+  Who batter down old temples in a day?
+  Old gods are dead; but still the sunset lingers,
+  The moonlight still its store of treasure yields,
+  Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers,
+  And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields,
+    The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above,
+    And human hearts still long for human love.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OBELISK
+
+  (_Place de la Concorde, Paris_)
+
+  There rise the palace walls as fair to-day,
+    As when with arms and banners gleaming bright,
+    The pageantry of royal pomp and might
+  Passed through the guarded gates and went its way.
+  The blue, translucent beams of morning play
+    On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light;
+    And here, where blind red fury reached its height,
+  An ancient column rises grim and gray.
+
+  Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be,
+    And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago,
+    Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow
+  About its feet of life's unresting sea;
+    But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low:
+  Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!
+
+
+
+
+  GRAY BIRDS
+
+  Gray birds of passage from another sky
+    Are those long hours I sit and wait for you;
+    Borne by strong wings across the sunlit blue
+  They go--dark flecks of shadow drifting by.
+  Sometimes they bring a song--a joyful cry,
+    As morn and eve your coming used to do;
+    But sometimes plaintive notes of sorrow too,
+  Amid the joyful echoes wail and die.
+
+  Then as I watch the beating of the wings
+    That seek a haven by far northern lakes,
+  And catch the note of some bird-heart that sings,
+    Or hear the plaintive cry of one that breaks,
+  I turn once more to half-forgotten things,
+    And the old longing in my heart awakes.
+
+
+
+
+  AFTER TEA
+
+  See how the aged trembling hands of Day
+  Spill over the white cloth and tea-cups blue,
+  Red wine from his last goblet poured away;
+  So let me by the window sit with you,
+  And watch the sun drop down behind the trees,
+  Or gleam across the snow--a crimson bar;
+  For in still, mystic moments such as these
+  Down unknown by-ways we may wander far.
+  The crimson turns to purple on the snow,
+  The orange sky grown gray, and glimmering lights
+  Of scattered star-lamps through the darkness glow;
+  But neither Night nor Death my soul affrights,
+    For clear there gleams, all earthly dark above,
+    The ever-burning star-lamp of your love.
+
+
+
+
+  THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER
+
+  Through a long cloister where the gloom of night
+    Lingers in sombre silence all the day,
+    Across worn pavements crumbling to decay
+  We wandered, blindly groping for the light.
+  A door swung wide, and splendour infinite
+    Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away
+    The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay,
+  And a great minster's glory met our sight.
+
+  Blindly along life's cloister do we grope,
+    We seek a gate that leads to life immortal,
+      We see it loom before us dim and vast,
+  And doubt's dark shadow's veil the light of hope:
+    When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal,
+      And light unfading meets our gaze at last.
+
+
+
+
+  CATHEDRAL VESPERS
+
+  The gloom of night creeps down the shadowy choir,
+    But through the great rose-window's gorgeous bloom
+    Red shafts of sunset fall upon a tomb,
+  And makes the gray stone burn--a crimson pyre.
+  The creeping tide of darkness rises higher,
+    Tall ghostly pillars through the shadows loom,
+    And from dim altars through the minster's gloom,
+  Pale yellow gleams the guttering candles' fire.
+
+  Sudden from out the shadow streams a song,
+    --A sword of sound that cleaves the dark in twain--
+  And rings and glows triumphant, swift and strong,
+    Victorious over sorrow, death and pain;
+  And golden visions pass before my soul
+  As through dim arches the last echoes roll.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LOTUS-WORSHIPPERS
+
+  With silent feet in trailing robes of white
+    They crept from shadowy temples, far beyond
+    Tall bamboo groves, to seek the lotus-pond
+  That gleamed like some dark jewel through the night
+  Upon great Buddha's breast.  The crimson height
+    Echoed their chanting as the morning dawned,
+    And each bud, breaking from its silver bond,
+  Lifted its cup to catch the golden light.
+
+  And here beside this mist-bound northern lake,
+    Encircled by tall spires of Gothic firs,
+    The ancient beauty-worship wakes and stirs
+  Within me, as I watch the morning break
+    Upon white lily-buds, whose lips agleam
+    Whisper the secret of the world-old dream.
+
+
+
+
+  THE BROKEN MAST
+
+  It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore,
+    Above a crescent beach of silver sand,
+    Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand
+  Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore
+  The main-mast from the ship.  Above it soar
+    White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand
+    Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land
+  Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.
+
+  And through long summer days it dreams old dreams
+    Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing
+  Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams;
+    But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying
+  It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,
+  And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES
+
+  Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie
+    Idle and still.  Against the sunset glow
+    Tall poplars stand, and silent barges go
+  Along the green canal that wanders by.
+  A lean, red finger pointing to the sky,
+    The spire of Notre Dame.  Above a row
+    Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die,
+  The ancient belfry guards the square below.
+
+  One August eve she stood in that same square
+    And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears,
+      To see her soldier passing down the street.
+  To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare
+    With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears,
+      And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.
+
+  AUGUST, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+  RHEIMS
+
+  In royal splendour rose the house of prayer,
+    Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight
+    Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night
+  Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair.
+  Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air;
+    Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height;
+    And on the altar, like a beacon light,
+  The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.
+
+  To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud,
+    For thou, O Rheims art prey of evil powers;
+  But with a voice a thousand times more loud
+    Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers,
+  Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim
+  Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.
+
+  JUNE, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+  CALVARY
+
+  The women stood and watched while thick, black night
+    Enclosed the awful tragedy.  Afar
+    Three crosses stood, against a single bar
+  Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light.
+  No hint of Easter dawn.  In all the height
+    Of that dark heaven, not a single star
+    To whisper;--Love and Life the victors are.
+  It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.
+
+  O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.
+    A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom
+      Across the mighty tragedy is drawn.
+  But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song,
+    And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb,
+      And voices shout at last--The Dawn!  The Dawn.
+
+  AUGUST, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+  GONE WEST
+
+_Dedicated to Lieutenant Rodolphe Lemieux, killed in action August 29,
+1918._
+
+  I do not think of them--our glorious dead--
+    As laying tired heads upon the breast
+    Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest;
+  I do not see them in a narrow bed
+  Of alien earth by their own blood dyed red,
+    But see in their own simple phrase--Gone West--
+    The words of knights upon a holy quest,
+  Who saw the light and followed where it led.
+
+  Gone West!  Scarred warrior hosts go marching by,
+    Their longing faces turned to greet the light
+  That glows and burns upon the western sky.
+    Leaving behind the darkness of the night,
+  The long day over and the battle won,
+  They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.
+
+
+
+
+  PEACE
+
+  Now Peace at last is hovering o'er the world
+    On silver wings, and golden trumpets blow.
+    Home from the long crusade the warriors go,--
+  Victorious knights with banners wide unfurled,
+  Bow down your head, for these have passed where swirled
+    Great tides of darkness ebbing too and fro;
+    Their eyes have seen, 'mid fiery tempests' glow,
+  How youth at Death its dauntless challenge hurled.
+
+  And these are they who saw the Holy Grail,
+    Brimming with youthful blood like ruddy wine
+    Poured out in sacrifice.  The light divine
+  Before whose awful glow they did not quail
+    Now beckons us; and shall our footsteps fail
+  To follow where they set the blood-stained sign?
+
+  NOVEMBER, 1918.
+
+
+
+
+  HIDDEN TREASURE
+
+  O sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes,
+  Do you see the blue of the summer skies?
+  Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream,
+  As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam?
+  Then come, come away
+  From the shadowy bay,
+  And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play;
+  For we are two pirates, fierce and bold,
+  And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.
+
+  A roving craft is our red canoe,
+  O pirate chief with the eyes of blue;
+  So hoist your flag with the skull on high,
+  And out we'll sail where the treasures lie.
+  For in days of old
+  Came pirates bold,
+  With a Spanish galleon's captured gold;
+  And their boat was wrecked on the river strand,
+  And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.
+
+  Now steady all as we dash along,
+  The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong;
+  And soon we'll drift with the water's flow
+  Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below.
+  O, cool and dim,
+  'Neath its foam-flecked brim,
+  Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim;
+  So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe
+  For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.
+
+  Now home once more to the shadowy bay,
+  For we've captured the gold of the summer's day,
+  And emeralds green from the banks along,
+  And silver bars from the white-throat's song.
+  No pirates bore
+  Such a glittering store
+  From the treasure ships of the days of yore,
+  As the spoils we have won on the shining stream,
+  While we drifted along in a golden dream.
+
+
+
+
+  A RIVER SUNSET
+
+  Red sunlight fades from wood and town,
+    The western sky is crimson-dyed,
+  Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down
+    Upon the river's gleaming tide.
+
+  The hills' clear outlines melt away
+    Or veil themselves in purple light,
+  And burning thoughts that vexed the day
+    Become fair visions of the night.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MADONNA
+
+  She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed
+    In the midst of the surging crowd;
+  Her hands were warped with the years of toil,
+    And her young form bent and bowed.
+
+  Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance
+    At the throng that round her pressed;
+  But her face was the face of the Mother of God
+    As she looked at the babe on her breast.
+
+
+
+
+  AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW
+
+  Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,
+    From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;
+  And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass
+    The whole day long, through the ancient square.
+
+  Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,
+    Here by the window he patiently waits
+  For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,
+    In the days of old at the temple gates.
+
+  He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,
+    For his heart is bronze, and he does not know
+  That his temple has been for a thousand years
+    But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.
+
+  So here he sits through the nights and the days,
+    And the sun goes up and down the sky;
+  But he often looks with a wistful gaze
+    At the crowds that always pass him by.
+
+  And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream
+    Of his poppy-land of long ago,
+  Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream
+    And the kneeling throng he used to know.
+
+  But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd
+    Of human folks that pass him by;
+  Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,--
+    And the sun once more goes down the sky.
+
+
+
+
+  IN A FOREST
+
+  Silver birch and dusky pine,
+  Reaching up to find the light
+  From the forest's gloomy night,
+  From the thicket where entwine
+  Stunted shrub and creeping vine,
+  From the damp where witch-fire glows
+  And the poison fungus grows,
+  High you lift your heads, O trees,
+  To the kisses of the breeze,
+  To the far-off vaulted sky,
+  To the clouds that pass you by,
+  To the sun that shines on high.
+
+  From the dusk of earthly night
+  Strive, O soul, to reach the light.
+
+
+
+
+  THE GOLDEN BOWL
+
+_On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among
+Eastern nations was a symbol of life._
+
+  In a dream he seems to lie
+    Gazing at the golden bowl,
+  Where dim visions passing by
+    Whisper vaguely to his soul.
+
+  Restless phantoms come and go
+    Crowned with cypress or with bay;
+  Sad or merry, swift or slow,
+    Tread they down the winding way.
+
+  Still the pageant winds along,--
+    Youth and age and love and lust,
+  Till at last the motley throng
+    Fades and crumbles into dust.
+
+  All in vain upon the bowl
+    Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;
+  He shall read its hidden scroll
+    Only when it shattered lies.
+
+  For a wondrous light shall gleam
+    From the scattered fragments born.
+  Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,
+    Followed by a golden morn.
+
+
+
+
+  ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN
+
+  Lad, the mighty hills are calling,
+    Hills of promise gleaming bright,
+  And the floods of sunshine falling
+    Fill their deepest vales with light.
+
+  There the young dawn's golden fire
+    Beckons to a brighter day,
+  Untrod paths of youth's desire,
+    Heights unconquered far away.
+
+  Steep and dark and spectre-haunted
+    Winds the pathway to the height;
+  Sturdy youth with heart undaunted
+    Deems the toiling short and light.
+
+  Short or long, an easy Master,
+    Gives each tired toiler rest,
+  Counts not failure or disaster
+    If the striving be the best.
+
+  Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,
+    Mates of old must soothe their pain,
+  Mindless of whate'er befalls you
+    If but honour still remain.
+
+
+
+
+  THE NUN'S GARDEN
+
+  They have made me a lovely garden
+    With walls that are rugged and gray;
+  They have filled it with pinks and roses
+    And lilies that bloom but a day;
+  But the walls are so high and frowning,
+    And the paths are so smooth and straight,
+  And even their smallest winding
+    Leads straight to the chapel gate.
+
+  I have planted a bed of pansies
+    Along by the chapel wall,
+  But though I have watered and weeded
+    They never have blossomed at all.
+  The sunshine of God cannot fall there,
+    For the chapel tower is too high;
+  So under its cold, gray shadow
+    My poor little blossoms die.
+
+  The Mother of God--in marble--
+    Gleams white where the willows toss,
+  And at the far end of the pathway
+    The dear Christ hangs on the cross;
+  And when the vespers are over,
+    If I have not sinned all day,
+  I may walk to the end of the garden
+    And kneel by the cross and pray.
+
+  But oh, for the wild, wild garden
+    That I knew in the days gone by,
+  Where the birches and elms and maples
+    Stretched up to the wind-swept sky;
+  Where, murmuring silver music,
+    The brook through the ferny dell
+  Ran down to the fields of clover,--
+    But hush, there's the vesper bell!
+
+
+
+
+  YOU WENT AWAY IN SUMMERTIME
+
+  You went away in summertime
+    When leaves and flowers were young,
+  And birds still lingered in the fields
+    With many songs unsung.
+
+  I'm glad it was in summertime
+    When skies were clear and blue,
+  I could not say good-bye to you
+    And bear the winter too.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A MODERN POET
+
+  Why must you sing of sorrow
+    When the world is so full of woe?
+  Why must you sing of the ugly?
+    For the ugly and sad I know.
+  Why will you sing of railways,
+    Of Iron and Steel and Coal,
+  And the din of the smoky cities?
+    For these will not feed my soul.
+
+  But sing to me songs of beauty
+    To gladden my tired eyes,--
+  The beauty of waving forest,
+    Of meadows and sunlit skies;
+  Sing me of childish laughter,
+    Of cradles and painted toys,
+  Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers,
+    And the shouting of bathing boys.
+
+  For the earth has a store of beauty
+    Deep hid from our blinded eyes,
+  And only the true-born poet
+    Knows just where the treasure lies.
+  So lead me from paths that are ugly,
+    From the dust of the city street.
+  To paths that are fringed with flowers,
+    Where the sky and the meadows meet.
+
+  And though Sorrow may walk beside me
+    To the far, far end of the road,
+  If Beauty but beckon me onward,
+    Less heavy will seem my load;
+  And led in the paths of beauty,
+    The world from its strife will cease;
+  For I know that the paths of beauty
+    Lead on to the paths of peace.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MYSTIC
+
+  The mystic sits by the sacred stream
+    Watching the sun as it mounts the sky;
+  And life to him is a haunting dream
+    Or a motley pageant passing by.
+
+  Sorrow and joy go on their way,
+    Passion and lust and love and hate;
+  Only a band of mummers they,
+    Blindly led by the hand of fate.
+
+  Though the pageant is real and himself the dream,
+    Though men are born and strive and die,
+  Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream
+    Watching the sun go down the sky.
+
+
+
+
+  AD EPISCOPI COLLEGIUM
+
+  Here in the beautiful valley, here where the fair rivers meeting,
+    Mingle their waters in silence and wander afar to the sea,
+  Now does thy son returning offer thee homage and greeting,
+    Now do my wandering footsteps turn, O Mother, to thee.
+
+  Gleam in the light of the sunset cross and turret and tower,
+    Mirrored majestic and silent down by the willow-clad shore;
+  Far through the valley resounding, telling the evensong hour,
+    Echoes the old bell's tolling, calling me back once more.
+
+  Here in the halls where I lingered, there in the woods where I wandered,
+    On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow,
+  Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I pondered
+    Deeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.
+
+  Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness,
+    Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap;
+  Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness,
+    Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.
+
+    Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river,
+  Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night;
+    Yet will my heart remember both Mother and sons forever,
+  Far though the pathway may lead me, swift though the years
+        in their flight.
+
+
+
+
+  A SONG OF THE HOMELAND
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Homeland,
+    Though the strains be of little worth,
+  A song of our own loved Homeland,
+    Of the noblest land upon earth;
+  Where the tide of the sea from oceans three
+    Beats high in its triple might,
+  Where the winds are born in a southern morn
+    And die in a polar night.
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Eastland,
+    Of the land where our fathers died,
+  Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead,
+    Are sleeping side by side;
+  Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil
+    Of the mighty river plain,
+  Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings,
+    And the old faith lives again.
+
+  I'll sing you a song of the Westland
+    Where the magic cities rise,
+  And the prairies clothed with their golden grain
+    Stretch under the azure skies;
+  Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim
+    Far north in the arctic land,
+  And the northern light in its mystic flight
+    Flares over the golden strand.
+
+  And I'll sing of the men of the Homeland
+    From the north and east and west,
+  The men who went to the Homeland's call,
+    (Ah, God, we have given our best!)
+  But not in vain are our heroes slain
+    If under the darkened skies,
+  All hand in hand from strand to strand
+    A sin-purged nation rise.
+
+
+
+
+  THE MIRROR
+
+  Your mirror, love, reflects your smile
+    As morn-flushed skies the coming dawn,
+  But oh, how blank the weary while
+    When you are gone!
+
+  My life's a mirror; with you near
+    'Tis filled with joy the live-long day,
+  But oh, how meaningless and drear
+    With you away!
+
+
+
+
+  I MADE A LITTLE SONG
+
+  I made a little song to-day,
+  And then I wandered down Broadway,
+  And saw the strange mad people run
+  And dance about me in the sun,
+  Or dive into the Underground
+  Like rabbits frightened by the sound
+  Of their own scampering through the grass;
+  I watched a thousand people pass,
+  But not a one did I hear say--
+  I made a little song to-day.
+
+  I made a little song to-day,
+  It sang beside me all the way
+  Until I reached the lower town,
+  Where crowds went surging up and down.
+  Their eyes were hard and faces white,
+  But some of them looked glad and bright,
+  Because the Bulls--or was it Bears?--
+  Had brought them gold for worthless shares;
+  But I was happier than they;--
+  I made a little song to-day.
+
+
+
+
+  BIRDS
+
+  I lie beneath a dark green pine
+  Where sunbeams scarcely ever shine,
+  And if I'm still as still can be
+  Shy forest birds come down to me.
+
+  Brown thrushes run along the ground,
+  Goldfinches flit without a sound,
+  And humming-birds with ruby throats
+  Alight to smooth their emerald coats.
+
+  And when some day alone I lie
+  Beneath the ever-changing sky,
+  I'm glad to know the birds will come
+  To welcome me to my new home.
+
+  For I will lie so still that they
+  Will linger by me all the day,
+  And lulled at evening by their song
+  I shall not find the darkness long.
+
+
+
+
+  THE BLUEBIRD'S WING
+
+  One day I saw the bluebird's wing
+  Agleam upon a waving sea
+  Of emerald-coloured timothy.
+  We walked together--you and I--
+  We saw the bluebird gliding by;
+  He came so near--the mad, wild thing--
+  We almost touched his sapphire wing,
+  But ere across our path he flew
+  He rose and vanished in the blue.
+
+  To-day I saw the bluebird's wing;
+  I heard wood-thrushes round me sing;
+  Wind-blown across the April sky,
+  Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by;
+  And on the sky-line's silver sheen
+  White birches danced in frills of green,
+  And all the world was mad with spring.
+  But you were miles and miles away;
+  The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.
+
+
+
+
+  THE ANSWER
+
+  Why do I lie upon the ground
+  And listen to the silver sound
+  Of water flowing from a spring?
+  It sings a song I cannot sing.
+
+  Why am I gazing at the sky
+  To watch the clouds go trailing by?
+  --Pearl ships upon a sapphire sea--
+  They seek a land unknown to me.
+
+  Why do I listen to the song
+  Of pine-boughs singing all day long?
+  The secret that their songs unfold
+  Ten thousand bards have left untold.
+
+
+
+
+WILD GRAPE
+
+
+
+  WILD GRAPE
+
+  Beneath the crawling shadow
+  Of a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten,
+  The wild grape twines amid the fragments
+  Of shattered pillars prone upon the ground,
+  And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures
+  Of faun and youth and maiden,
+  That once stood in the temple pediment,
+  Young, naked, beautiful.
+  In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus
+  leaves of the crumbling columns,
+  And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.
+  The wild bees hum and buzz
+  Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,
+  Under the drowsy noonday sun,
+  That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the
+        thirsting hillside.
+  Wanton and wild,
+  Like an unhappy lover
+  Clinging to the breast of his dead mistress,
+  The vine clings in voluptuous embrace
+  About the naked, pallid forms,
+  And mingles there with the eternal beauty
+  Of youth and age
+  And life and death.
+
+
+
+
+  TO A GREEK STATUE
+
+  Beautiful statue of Parian marble,
+  Dreaming alone in the northern sunlight,
+  Ivory-tinted, your slender arms beckon;
+  I follow, I follow.
+
+  Slender and white is your beautiful body,
+  Gleaming against the gray walls that surround you;
+  Like hyacinth-flowers beneath the snow sleeping
+  Is the dream you emprison;--
+
+  A dream of beauty that lingers forever,
+  A dream of the amethyst sky of midnight,
+  A dream of the jacinth blue of still waters,
+  Reflecting white temples.
+
+  Your white arms beckon, I follow, I follow,
+  My dream goes forth with your dream to wander;
+  You lead me into a moonlit garden
+  Beside the AEgean.
+
+  White in the moonlight gleams the temple
+  Cutting the purple sky with its pediment;
+  Diamonds and sapphires fall from the fountain;
+  Black are the cypress trees.
+
+  The gods are asleep in the silent temple;
+  Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand
+  Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating
+  With the bells of the fountain.
+
+  Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses,
+  Not in vain are your white arms lifted;
+  And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal
+  Embrace in the moonlight.
+
+
+
+
+  OMNIPRESENCE
+
+  What are the great pine boughs
+  That stretch over me so lovingly
+  Shielding me from the heat?
+  They are the sheltering arms of God,
+  Visible
+  Against white drifting clouds.
+
+  And the trailing white clouds,--
+  What are they?
+  They are the tattered, worn-out clothes,
+  Bordered with broken pearls,
+  Cast off by the angels and archangels,
+  And by God himself.
+
+
+
+
+  MY CATHEDRAL
+
+  All my life long I have loved cathedrals;
+  Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches
+  Are the home of peace and beauty,
+  And sometimes, too, of hope.
+  Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glass
+  Shut out the noisy world,
+  And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.
+  Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts;
+  Their blue welling clouds of incense
+  Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers,
+  And their gleaming candles
+  Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.
+
+  And now I have a cathedral all my own.
+  It has great pine trunks for pillars,
+  For painted windows red and golden leaves;
+  White slender birches are the singing-boys,
+  And the great organ the winds of God
+  Playing among the pine-boughs.
+  The prim little spruces are virgin nuns,
+  Telling their beads in drops of dew;
+  And the bare broken tree-stumps
+  Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms,
+  But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.
+  The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me;
+  The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell;
+  From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;
+  And from the great high altar of eternal rock,
+  God himself looks forth
+  In the red glory of the dawn.
+
+
+
+
+  THE FOUNDRY
+
+  Two monsters,
+  Iron and Coal,
+  Sleep in the darkness.
+  A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,
+  And they awake hissing and writhing,
+  And spew forth blood-red vomit
+  In streams like fiery serpents.
+  Then from the reeking pools
+  A monstrous brood is born,
+  Black, strong, beautiful.
+  But we turn away our tired eyes,
+  And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.
+
+
+
+
+  SWISS SKETCHES
+
+  I.--AFTER SUNSET ON JURA
+
+  The Alps--
+  A mighty string of pearls
+  Which Day has laid aside--
+  Flaunt their alluring beauty
+  Upon the purple velvet of deep valleys,
+  Until night,
+  Stretching out black greedy fingers,
+  Steals them one by one.
+
+
+  II.--LUCERNE
+
+  From staring eyes
+  Of hotel windows,
+  From flaunting rich
+  And cringing poor,
+  From men and women
+  Drunken with wine, passion and money,
+  From tired Cook's tourists
+  Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds,
+  From shrieking steamers
+  Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds,
+  From bands beating out brazen music
+  Under the twisted plane-trees,
+  From all that is poor and rich and ugly,
+  I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills
+  Which are outlined upon orange and crimson
+  By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight,
+  And there my soul finds peace.
+
+
+  III.--LAKE LEMAN
+
+  Like the High Priest of Jehovah
+  The lake, for the Festival of Beauty
+  Puts upon its blue garment
+  A gorgeous jewelled breast-plate bordered with gold.
+
+  Behind the cloudy pillar glows a fire;
+  My eyes can scarcely bear its glory,
+  As it burns crimson and scarlet
+  On jasper and flame-colored sard,
+  On ruby, red as sunset flame,
+  And topaz shot with golden lights.
+  Like the eternal fire of distant stars--
+  Blue, green and white,
+  Gleam diamond, emerald, sapphire,
+  Jacinth and beryl,
+  Onyx and green-banded agate,
+  And amethyst purple as wild iris-flowers.
+  Morning and evening
+  On the day of the great Festival
+  The High Priest of Beauty wears his jewelled breastplate,
+  And the chosen people, blinded by its glory,
+  Bow down and worship.
+
+
+
+
+  VISIONS
+
+  I.
+
+  I saw a vision of beauty.
+  My eyes looked through the mists of ages,
+  Back to the glorious years when Beauty itself was God.
+  And I saw the waves of the blue AEgean,
+  Turquoise, sapphire, jacinth and amethyst mingled,
+  And I heard the singing of the water,
+  As of playing of distant pipes
+  By slender shepherd lads among the hills.
+  Then I turned away from the shore
+  And I saw the pediment of a great temple
+  Standing white against the sky,
+  And beneath the pediment rows of marble columns
+  Like giant trees in a forest of frozen beauty.
+  Statues gleamed amid the dark foliage of cypress and olive trees,
+  Statues of gods and goddesses, youths and maidens,
+  Horses of ruddy bronze and chariots of beaten brass.
+  My feet trod the steps of the marble stairway,
+  And I went a worshipper to the great temple,
+  Whose burnished doors stood wide ajar
+  Gleaming like the portal of a dream city;
+  I lifted my arms in adoration,
+  And my soul drank its fill
+  From the pure Greek fountain-head of beauty.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  I saw a vision of faith.
+  My eyes were turned to a mediaeval city
+  Of crowded low-roofed houses,
+  From which there rose a great cathedral,
+  With walls of chiselled stone
+  And spires that pierced into the blue.
+  Here men had wrought with hands and heart and brain
+  Long years in wood and stone,
+  Until they reared a gorgeous temple to do honour to their God.
+  I entered in,
+
+  And saw the walls agleam with painted glass,
+  More brilliant than the jewels of eastern kings;
+  I heard the organ like winds sweeping across the sea,
+  And the voices of the singing-boys
+  Like soft ripples on the velvet sand.
+  With golden cross and smoking censers
+  And priests in robes of scarlet and purple,
+  The procession passed along;
+  Then the great sweating throng
+  Bowed low upon the stony floor before the Host,
+  And when the echoing music
+  Had vanished in the soaring vault above,
+  The crowd went forth from the gorgeous gloom
+  Comforted, into the golden sun-light.
+  My soul, too, was comforted,
+  For it had drunk deep
+  From the pure mediaeval well of faith.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  I saw a vision of love.
+  Upon the field of battle
+  Amid dust and smoke and shrouds of poisonous vapour
+  Red streams of youthful blood were poured upon the ground,
+  Generously,
+  Joyfully,
+  That the world might not die from its festering wounds,
+  But might drink health and life
+  From these pure, youthful streams.
+  Then I stood awed and dumb,
+  For here was love supreme.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  I saw a vision of death.
+  Silence held my feet with clinging hands,
+  And Darkness put heavy fingers across my eyes.
+  Then Darkness raised her hands, and I saw in the gray shadows
+  A great night-moth with sable folded wings;
+  It seemed asleep upon a purple flower,
+  But as I watched,
+  Slowly it spread its wings,
+  And from them shone a gleam of crimson dawn,
+  And all the world was drenched in showers of light.
+  Then with his flaming wings outspread
+  The great moth sailed away,
+  Like a scarlet boat upon a dawn-swept sea,
+  Leaving behind a wake of golden light.
+  And I know that my vision of death
+  Was only a vision of beauty.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE PRINTS
+
+  I.--THE LADY WITH THE YELLOW FAN
+
+  O little lady with the yellow fan
+  Why are you so sad?
+  Why does a tear stand
+  Like a tea-flower bud upon your cheek?
+  Your dress is of blue and scarlet silk,
+  Your slippers are embroidered with gems,
+  A gold and emerald butterfly has lighted in your hair,
+  Your serving-maid stands near
+  Awaiting your command,
+  And if you lifted but one slender finger
+  A chariot would come and carry you away to your father's palace.
+  Why are you so sad?
+
+  It is because the ships beside the shore
+  Spread their dark sails to the sea-blowing breeze;
+  The tide is high, and soon will set toward the distant islands,
+  And there is a gleam of swords and armour,
+  For the soldiers go to war beyond the seas.
+
+
+  II.--CAGED BIRDS
+
+  There are yellow birds within the cage;
+  Beside its gilded bars there stand the women
+  Whom the Great Prince loves to honour.
+  They wear silken robes and jewels in their hair,
+  And live in a pretty pink and yellow house.
+  But the women look not at the captive singing-birds,
+  Nor listen to their song,
+  Their eyes follow the flight of two white-breasted doves,
+  Winging their way towards the wind-torn clouds.
+
+
+  III.--WISTERIA
+
+  Why do you peer at me, old man,
+  With eyes half shut,
+  From underneath the purple lanterns of your wisteria vine?
+  Your face is but a mask,
+  Showing neither joy nor sorrow;
+  But I know you bend your head to listen
+  When the wild geese go honking towards the south,
+  And your eyes grow wide with sadness,
+  When the last petal falls from the wisteria flower.
+  You, too, love beauty,
+  Or else why twine the purple wisteria about your door-posts,
+  Or pin a yellow gem upon your lilac gown?
+
+
+
+
+  A VENETIAN PALACE
+
+  In quivering translucent light,
+  Her head resting upon the blue pillow of the sky,
+  Her feet upon the floor of the smoke-blue water,
+  Sleeps Beauty,
+  Turned to stone by a miracle of art.
+  And though she never stirs,
+  But slumbers on in a worn and faded robe
+  Rose-colored and bordered with old lace of ivory white,
+  We come from far-off cities,
+  And we turn to her our hungry eyes,
+  Even away from sunlit sky and sea.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE IRIS
+
+  A great prince of the ancient days
+  Once loved a little geisha girl,
+  Who wore a silken robe,
+  Blue as the waters of the lily-pond.
+  But the Great Prince was sent to a distant island,
+  And the little geisha girl
+  Never put on her robe of blue again.
+
+  And you, O purple iris with the golden bands,
+  Are the soul of the Great Prince;
+  And you, O slender one,
+  Blue as lapis lazuli,
+  Are the soul of the little dancing-girl;
+  And you nestle at last
+  Beside your stately purple Prince,
+  Here in the sunshine of my northern garden.
+
+
+
+
+  JAPANESE LOVE-SONGS
+
+  (_In the Hokku manner_)
+
+  I.
+
+  The white lotus-flower
+  Grows in the depths of the pool,
+  Love grows in my heart.
+
+  II.
+
+  The peony flames crimson.
+  My heart's blood is far redder
+  Than its flame.
+
+  III.
+
+  Sere iris leaves and dead blossoms.
+  Mist and drizzle of rain.
+  Where art thou?
+
+  IV.
+
+  Darkness.  Shadows in my soul.
+  The vision of your face.
+  Dawn and music.
+
+  V.
+
+  Hush of night.  Perfumed breath of night.
+  A moth with flaming wings.
+  Come beloved.
+
+
+
+
+  CUPS OF JADE
+
+  The mists lie along the iris-purple valleys;
+  The little wooden bridge,
+  Where the waterfall rings its silver bells,
+  Is a bow of darkness;
+  The dust of the highway is gray as ashes under our feet;
+  A cloud of night-birds
+  Dots the orange sky.
+
+  All day our paths have led us side by side
+  Along the steep hot highways.
+  It is cool evening now,
+  And the temple bells call you one way
+  And the silence calls me another.
+
+  We come to the white door-posts of your house,
+  We leave our dusty shoes beside the little pool among the iris leaves.
+  We sit upon woven mats and you give me tea to drink
+  From a cup of sea-green jade.
+  Now is my tongue heavy with thoughts I cannot utter,
+  For I know that to-morrow
+  My path will not lead over the steep hill,
+  Nor yours down to the deep valley,
+  For we have drunk together from cups of sea-green jade.
+
+
+
+
+  THE LOON'S CRY
+
+  Outside the tent
+  Darkness and giant trees swaying in the wind.
+  The lake is moaning in its troubled sleep.
+  And far across the lazy lapping waves,
+  Above the crooning of the wind,
+  I hear a wild loon crying,
+  Like a weary soul alone on the dark water.
+
+  Inside the tent
+  Your gentle breathing,
+  Untroubled by crooning wind or wailing loon;
+  Your face is lighted by the embers of the fire.
+
+  Fainter and farther away echoes the loon's cry,
+  But now it is only the voice of Loneliness
+  Bidding me farewell,
+  As it passes away into the night.
+
+  You stir in your sleep softly
+  And turn your face to me,--
+  And the loon cries no more.
+
+
+
+
+  PRAYER
+
+  I.
+
+  A wind-bell hung at the gateway of an ancient temple
+  And played the music taught it by the wind,
+  At times soft, like bubbles breaking in a fountain,
+  When the breeze of summer night caressed it,
+  Then loud and jangling when the typhoon swept across the sea,
+  Or low and moaning when the temple gongs sounded for prayer.
+  And the people,
+  Who never heard the music of the wind,
+  Paused to listen to the wind-bell,
+  And then passed on through the temple gate,
+  With music echoing in their ears.
+
+  O Maker of all music,
+  Let me be as the wind-bell by the temple.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  Beyond the temple gate
+  A gleaming pool lay among the iris leaves.
+  At dawn it glowed like a great rose upon the garden's breast,
+  At sunset flamed like a crimson peony.
+  And the people,
+  Who never lifted up their eyes to see the beauty of the sky,
+  Would linger as they passed from prayer
+  To watch the sunrise or the sunset fade upon the pool,
+  And then turn their steps to the gray dusty streets,
+  With rose and gold and crimson in their eyes.
+
+  O Maker of all beauty,
+  Let me be as the iris-bordered pool.
+
+
+
+
+
+  Warwick Bro's & Rutter, Limited,
+  Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Acanthus and Wild Grape, by F. O. Call
+
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