Read Ebook: Acanthus and Wild Grape by Call Frank Oliver

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Ebook has 76 lines and 6858 words, and 2 pages

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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