Acanthus and Wild Grape

In Short

This collection of poems seeks to reconcile traditional, structured verse with the freer, more spontaneous expressions of modernism. By weaving together themes of Canadian landscape, European travel, and the profound stillness of the natural world, the work acts as both a travelogue and a contemplative journey. It has lasted because of its earnest, unadorned pursuit of beauty, capturing a specific moment in Canadian literature where the "acanthus" of classical tradition meets the untamed, organic growth of the "wild grape."

The Story

The collection unfolds as a dual pilgrimage: one rooted in the physical exploration of the world, and the other in the inward landscape of the spirit. It begins with a reverence for the past, specifically the "Acanthus"—a symbol of classical architecture and the enduring weight of history. The opening poems look toward Greek temples, crumbling obelisks, and the solemnity of European cathedrals. There is a sense of the poet standing amidst the ruins of old ways, attempting to reconcile his surroundings with the fast-approaching complexities of the early twentieth century.

As the narrative progresses, the tone shifts from the distant, sculpted marble of antiquity to the more immediate, visceral experiences of the Great War. The poet grapples with the loss of youth and the destruction of cultural landmarks like Rheims, yet even here, he seeks a sense of "Peace." This is not a passive peace, but a hard-won realization that even in the wake of tragedy, beauty remains a vital, restorative force. The "Gone West" section serves as a meditation on the fallen, framing their sacrifice not as a finality, but as a quest.

The second half of the book, "Wild Grape," shifts the focus toward a more intimate, subjective experience. Here, the poet leaves the heavy stone of the cathedral for the "cathedral" of the forest. The journey takes the reader through the Swiss Alps, across the waters of Lake Leman, and into the delicate, precise imagery of Japanese prints. The arc reaches its resolution in the Canadian wilderness, where the poet finds that the same "eternal beauty" he sought in ancient ruins exists in the simple cry of a loon or the reflection of a sunset on a mountain lake. The ending is quiet and contemplative, moving away from the "dusty streets" of society toward a personal, meditative sanctuary. The final prayer is a plea for the poet to become a vessel for this beauty—a simple wind-bell or a garden pool reflecting the sky—signaling a complete surrender of the ego to the natural world.

How It Unfolds

The call of antiquity The poet establishes his foundation in the classical past, using architectural metaphors to ground his search for meaning. He looks at Greek columns and ruined shrines, finding that beauty persists even when the gods who inspired it have been forgotten.

The shadow of history The perspective shifts to the brutal realities of the mid-1910s, where traditional beauty is confronted by the violence of war. These beats acknowledge the "shattered towers" and "fiendish music," testing the poet’s conviction that beauty and truth can survive such darkness.

The transition to the wild The poet leaves the city and the battlefield, moving into the sanctuary of the natural world. He reimagines the forest as a cathedral, finding that the "wind of God" is a more powerful organ than any found in man-made stone.

The lens of the observer The final movement brings an international perspective, utilizing Japanese-inspired imagery to distill complex emotions into sparse, focused moments. This culminates in a return to the Canadian landscape, where the poet finally finds the "answer" to his search in the quiet solitude of the lake and the woods.

The People

The book is populated by figures who exist more as archetypes than as individualized dramatic characters. The Lace-maker of Bruges embodies the quiet, stoic endurance of the civilian, her age-worn hands a contrast to the "fiendish music" of war. She represents the fragility of beauty under pressure. The Old Lohan, an idol sitting in a shop window, serves as a mirror for the reader; he is a silent observer of the "hurrying crowds," embodying the wisdom of indifference. He understands that while empires and temples turn to dust, the sun will continue to rise and set. Finally, the Poet himself is the central figure—a wanderer who grows from a student of history into an observer of the immediate present. His journey is one of shedding the need for grand, traditional structures in favor of finding the sacred in the mundane. He ends the work less as a voice of authority and more as a listener, content to let the "silver sound" of a spring provide the song he cannot sing himself.

In Its Own Voice

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.

The author explains the central tension of the collection, contrasting the rigid beauty of classical structure with the untamed vitality of nature.

And I know that my vision of death was only a vision of beauty.

In a moment of intense reflection on the cycle of existence, the poet reconciles the darkness of the end with the radiance of light.

What It's Really About

At its core, this work is an inquiry into the nature of permanence. It asks whether beauty is something we build—like a cathedral or a monument—or something we simply witness, like a sunset or a bird in flight. The poet argues that human attempts to capture beauty through architecture and rhyme are noble, yet limited; true peace is found in the fluid, transient moments that defy human control. It is a defense of the "mystic" impulse, suggesting that while the world is full of "iron and steel and coal," the soul requires the "paths of beauty" to navigate the transition between life and death.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate a deliberate, unhurried pace will find much to admire here. This is not a book that seeks to challenge or disrupt; rather, it offers the quiet companionship of a thoughtful observer who has traveled widely and looked closely at the world. Those who love the Romantic tradition, with its focus on the sublime and the restorative power of landscape, will feel right at home.

However, modern readers should be prepared for the earnest, sometimes didactic tone of the early 1900s. The poet’s language is ornamental and intentionally "literary," which can occasionally feel at odds with the raw, direct emotions he tries to convey. There are also period-specific attitudes, particularly in the sections regarding non-Western cultures, which reflect the "orientalist" lens common to the era’s academic and literary circles. Yet, for all its occasional stiffness, the book succeeds as an honest documentation of a human life trying to make sense of the noise of the world. What stays with you is not the grand philosophy, but the small, clear images: the loon’s cry across a dark lake, the crimson of a sunset on the snow, and the quiet, persistent attempt to remain attentive in an age of distraction.