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Acanthus and Wild Grape by F. O. Call

Produced by Al Haines

Acanthus and Wild Grape


F. O. Call

Author of "In a Belgian Garden"


Publishers -- 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.



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 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


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.

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