These magnificent poems written by a lover of the natural splendor of untrodden lands are both thrilling and exhilarating. Visions and observations of the wonders of creation are gradually unlocked and elegantly illustrated in ways hitherto unimagined by the passive observer of the eclectic world that surrounds us, while sparing no omission of the very obvious and egregious rampant destruction, both physical and moral, of the Great War. Frank Oliver Call, the poet, the educator, the skillful wordsmith takes us on a journey to lands near and far, both those untouched by the ravages of civilization and those savagely ravaged by that same civilization run amok. While deftly expressing his love and awe for the raw beauty of nature and his condemnation for "Death's dark wing" that had drifted over places tranquil and serene he once cherished, the poet concedes that much of life and its possible purpose is not nor never can be understood by us mortals. However, recognizing the imperative nature of life itself Call goes on to acknowledge that, "onward driven must our frail barques go," while adding the plea, "O God, that we might know, might only know!" Come, then, come on this magical exploration of an era since passed, an era of beauty but one of death, destruction and devastation. Let us appreciate the prescience of this poet's description of lives altogether too able to be transformed in an instant from peace to furious frenzy. And let us dream, dream of how idyllic life could, should and just may possibly one day be.
