eval 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

(_Pl