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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. 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