: In a Belgian Garden and Other Poems by Call Frank Oliver - Canadian poetry

@FreeBooksWed 07 Jun, 2023

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INTRODUCTION IN A BELGIAN GARDEN A LINCOLNSHIRE MAIDEN HIDDEN TREASURE A RIVER SUNSET THE MADONNA AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW THROUGH A LONG CLOISTER THE CHAMBLY RAPID THE SNOWDRIFT ON MOUNT ROYAL THE VISION A YEAR AGO ETERNITY THE OLD SCHOOL BELL ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN RHEIMS THE MYSTIC A SONG OF THE HOMELAND THE FROZEN BROOK THE INDIFFERENT ONES IN A FOREST THE SHIPS OF MEMORY THE OBELISK THE PARTING WAYS CALVARY THE GOLDEN BOWL THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES

Introduction

Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, though their author--who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at Bishop's College, Quebec--has written verse from his childhood. He is the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may be gathered from his "Song of the Homeland." His verse has already earned a considerable reputation in Canada, in whose Press much of it has appeared. Educated at Stanstead College, he took his degree at the University where he now lectures, and has also studied in Paris, Marburg and Switzerland. Several of his poems are concerned with the sorrow and the ravished beauty of Belgium: a circumstance not surprising, as he has travelled much in that country, as well as in France, Switzerland and Italy. A lover of country life and a disciple of the cult of the open road, he revels in the joys of camping and canoeing, as one of his poems, "Hidden Treasure," bears witness. In this little book, and more especially in the "Song of the Homeland," he shows us the maple leaf entwined, strongly as ever, with the English rose of the Mother country.

S. GERTRUDE FORD.

In a Belgian Garden

Once in a Belgian garden, I saw like pale Madonnas The tall white lilies blow.

Great poplars swayed and trembled Afar against the sky, And green with flags and rushes The river wandered by.

Amid the waving wheatfields Glowed poppies blazing red, And showering strange wild music A lark rose overhead.

The lark has ceased his singing, The wheat is trodden low, And in the blood-stained garden No more the lilies blow.

And where green poplars trembled Stand shattered trunks instead, And lines of small white crosses Keep guard above the dead.

For here brave lads and noble, From lands beyond the deep, Beneath the small white crosses Have laid them down to sleep.

They laid them down with gladness Upon the alien plain, That this same Belgian garden Might bud and bloom again.

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