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@@ -0,0 +1,1766 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trees and Other Poems, by Joyce Kilmer + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Trees and Other Poems + +Author: Joyce Kilmer + +Posting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #263] +Release Date: May, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREES AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light + + + + + +TREES AND OTHER POEMS + +by Joyce Kilmer + +[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American +(New Jersey & New York) Poet -- 1886-1918.] + + +Edition of 1914. + + + +[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.] + + + + + +TREES AND OTHER POEMS + + + "Mine is no horse with wings, to gain + The region of the Spheral chime; + He does but drag a rumbling wain, + Cheered by the coupled bells of rhyme." + + Coventry Patmore + + + + +To My Mother + + + + Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold + (I know it does) a record of the days + When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise + For halting verse and stories crudely told? + Over these childish scrawls the years have rolled, + They might not know the world's unfriendly gaze; + But still your smile shines down familiar ways, + Touches my words and turns their dross to gold. + + More dear to-day than in that vanished time + Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong. + In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chime, + So unto you does this, my work belong. + Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme: + Your heart will change it to authentic song. + + + + +Contents + + The Twelve-Forty-Five + Pennies + Trees + Stars + Old Poets + Delicatessen + Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy + Wealth + Martin + The Apartment House + As Winds That Blow Against A Star + St. Laurence + To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself + Memorial Day + The Rosary + Vision + To Certain Poets + Love's Lantern + St. Alexis + Folly + Madness + Poets + Citizen of the World + To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring + The Fourth Shepherd + Easter + Mount Houvenkopf + The House with Nobody in It + Dave Lilly + Alarm Clocks + Waverley + + + + + +TREES AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +The Twelve-Forty-Five + + (For Edward J. Wheeler) + + + + Within the Jersey City shed + The engine coughs and shakes its head, + The smoke, a plume of red and white, + Waves madly in the face of night. + And now the grave incurious stars + Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars. + Against the kind and awful reign + Of darkness, this our angry train, + A noisy little rebel, pouts + Its brief defiance, flames and shouts -- + And passes on, and leaves no trace. + For darkness holds its ancient place, + Serene and absolute, the king + Unchanged, of every living thing. + The houses lie obscure and still + In Rutherford and Carlton Hill. + Our lamps intensify the dark + Of slumbering Passaic Park. + And quiet holds the weary feet + That daily tramp through Prospect Street. + What though we clang and clank and roar + Through all Passaic's streets? No door + Will open, not an eye will see + Who this loud vagabond may be. + Upon my crimson cushioned seat, + In manufactured light and heat, + I feel unnatural and mean. + Outside the towns are cool and clean; + Curtained awhile from sound and sight + They take God's gracious gift of night. + The stars are watchful over them. + On Clifton as on Bethlehem + The angels, leaning down the sky, + Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I -- + I ride, I blasphemously ride + Through all the silent countryside. + The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare, + Pollute the still nocturnal air. + The cottages of Lake View sigh + And sleeping, frown as we pass by. + Why, even strident Paterson + Rests quietly as any nun. + Her foolish warring children keep + The grateful armistice of sleep. + For what tremendous errand's sake + Are we so blatantly awake? + What precious secret is our freight? + What king must be abroad so late? + Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night + And we rush forth to give him fight. + Or else, perhaps, we speed his way + To some remote unthinking prey. + Perhaps a woman writhes in pain + And listens -- listens for the train! + The train, that like an angel sings, + The train, with healing on its wings. + Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries. + My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes. + He hurries yawning through the car + And steps out where the houses are. + This is the reason of our quest! + Not wantonly we break the rest + Of town and village, nor do we + Lightly profane night's sanctity. + What Love commands the train fulfills, + And beautiful upon the hills + Are these our feet of burnished steel. + Subtly and certainly I feel + That Glen Rock welcomes us to her + And silent Ridgewood seems to stir + And smile, because she knows the train + Has brought her children back again. + We carry people home -- and so + God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go. + Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale + Lift sleepy heads to give us hail. + In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand + Houses that wistfully demand + A father -- son -- some human thing + That this, the midnight train, may bring. + The trains that travel in the day + They hurry folks to work or play. + The midnight train is slow and old + But of it let this thing be told, + To its high honor be it said + It carries people home to bed. + My cottage lamp shines white and clear. + God bless the train that brought me here. + + + + +Pennies + + + + A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand + Behold him stand; + A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. + The joy that once he had, + The first delight of ownership is fled. + He bows his little head. + Ah, cruel Time, to kill + That splendid thrill! + + Then in his tear-dimmed eyes + New lights arise. + He drops his treasured pennies on the ground, + They roll and bound + And scattered, rest. + Now with what zest + He runs to find his errant wealth again! + + So unto men + Doth God, depriving that He may bestow. + Fame, health and money go, + But that they may, new found, be newly sweet. + Yea, at His feet + Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid, + All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid. + + Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife, + And gain on loss. + What is the key to Everlasting Life? + A blood-stained Cross. + + + + +Trees + + (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) + + + + I think that I shall never see + A poem lovely as a tree. + + A tree whose hungry mouth is prest + Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; + + A tree that looks at God all day, + And lifts her leafy arms to pray; + + A tree that may in Summer wear + A nest of robins in her hair; + + Upon whose bosom snow has lain; + Who intimately lives with rain. + + Poems are made by fools like me, + But only God can make a tree. + + + + +Stars + + (For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.) + + + + Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, + Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair? + As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through, + Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too? + + Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes, + Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies. + Now and then a winged child turns his merry face + Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place! + + Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!) + In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole. + Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, + Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky. + + Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men, + Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again. + Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are, + Flashes past the face of God, and is a star. + + + + +Old Poets + + (For Robert Cortez Holliday) + + + + If I should live in a forest + And sleep underneath a tree, + No grove of impudent saplings + Would make a home for me. + + I'd go where the old oaks gather, + Serene and good and strong, + And they would not sigh and tremble + And vex me with a song. + + The pleasantest sort of poet + Is the poet who's old and wise, + With an old white beard and wrinkles + About his kind old eyes. + + For these young flippertigibbets + A-rhyming their hours away + They won't be still like honest men + And listen to what you say. + + The young poet screams forever + About his sex and his soul; + But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, + And polishes its bowl. + + There should be a club for poets + Who have come to seventy year. + They should sit in a great hall drinking + Red wine and golden beer. + + They would shuffle in of an evening, + Each one to his cushioned seat, + And there would be mellow talking + And silence rich and sweet. + + There is no peace to be taken + With poets who are young, + For they worry about the wars to be fought + And the songs that must be sung. + + But the old man knows that he's in his chair + And that God's on His throne in the sky. + So he sits by the fire in comfort + And he lets the world spin by. + + + + +Delicatessen + + + + Why is that wanton gossip Fame + So dumb about this man's affairs? + Why do we titter at his name + Who come to buy his curious wares? + + Here is a shop of wonderment. + From every land has come a prize; + Rich spices from the Orient, + And fruit that knew Italian skies, + + And figs that ripened by the sea + In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, + Strange pungent meats from Germany, + And currants from a Grecian hill. + + He is the lord of goodly things + That make the poor man's table gay, + Yet of his worth no minstrel sings + And on his tomb there is no bay. + + Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, + This trafficker in humble sweets, + Because his little shops are raised + By thousands in the city streets. + + Yet stars in greater numbers shine, + And violets in millions grow, + And they in many a golden line + Are sung, as every child must know. + + Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes, + His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face, + His shop, and all he sells and buys + Are desperately commonplace. + + Well, it is true he has no sword + To dangle at his booted knees. + He leans across a slab of board, + And draws his knife and slices cheese. + + He never heard of chivalry, + He longs for no heroic times; + He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, + And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes. + + His world has narrow walls, it seems; + By counters is his soul confined; + His wares are all his hopes and dreams, + They are the fabric of his mind. + + Yet -- in a room above the store + There is a woman -- and a child + Pattered just now across the floor; + The shopman looked at him and smiled. + + For, once he thrilled with high romance + And tuned to love his eager voice. + Like any cavalier of France + He wooed the maiden of his choice. + + And now deep in his weary heart + Are sacred flames that whitely burn. + He has of Heaven's grace a part + Who loves, who is beloved in turn. + + And when the long day's work is done, + (How slow the leaden minutes ran!) + Home, with his wife and little son, + He is no huckster, but a man! + + And there are those who grasp his hand, + Who drink with him and wish him well. + O in no drear and lonely land + Shall he who honors friendship dwell. + + And in his little shop, who knows + What bitter games of war are played? + Why, daily on each corner grows + A foe to rob him of his trade. + + He fights, and for his fireside's sake; + He fights for clothing and for bread: + The lances of his foemen make + A steely halo round his head. + + He decks his window artfully, + He haggles over paltry sums. + In this strange field his war must be + And by such blows his triumph comes. + + What if no trumpet sounds to call + His armed legions to his side? + What if, to no ancestral hall + He comes in all a victor's pride? + + The scene shall never fit the deed. + Grotesquely wonders come to pass. + The fool shall mount an Arab steed + And Jesus ride upon an ass. + + This man has home and child and wife + And battle set for every day. + This man has God and love and life; + These stand, all else shall pass away. + + O Carpenter of Nazareth, + Whose mother was a village maid, + Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath + In scorn on any humble trade? + + Have pity on our foolishness + And give us eyes, that we may see + Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress + The splendor of humanity! + + + + +Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy + + + + Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!" + Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): + + "O king of realms of endless joy, + My own, my golden grocer's boy, + + I am a princess forced to dwell + Within a lonely kitchen cell, + + While you go dashing through the land + With loveliness on every hand. + + Your whistle strikes my eager ears + Like music of the choiring spheres. + + The mighty earth grows faint and reels + Beneath your thundering wagon wheels. + + How keenly, perilously sweet + To cling upon that swaying seat! + + How happy she who by your side + May share the splendors of that ride! + + Ah, if you will not take my hand + And bear me off across the land, + + Then, traveller from Arcady, + Remain awhile and comfort me. + + What other maiden can you find + So young and delicate and kind?" + + Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!" + Her soul spoke thus (I know it did). + + + + +Wealth + + (For Aline) + + + + From what old ballad, or from what rich frame + Did you descend to glorify the earth? + Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came? + Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth? + + Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand + Could Raphael or Leonardo trace. + Nor could the poets know in Fairyland + The changing wonder of your lyric face. + + I would possess a host of lovely things, + But I am poor and such joys may not be. + So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings + Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me. + + + + +Martin + + + + When I am tired of earnest men, + Intense and keen and sharp and clever, + Pursuing fame with brush or pen + Or counting metal disks forever, + Then from the halls of Shadowland + Beyond the trackless purple sea + Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand + Beside my desk and talk to me. + + Still on his delicate pale face + A quizzical thin smile is showing, + His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, + His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. + He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, + A suit to match his soft grey hair, + A rakish stick, a knowing hat, + A manner blithe and debonair. + + How good that he who always knew + That being lovely was a duty, + Should have gold halls to wander through + And should himself inhabit beauty. + How like his old unselfish way + To leave those halls of splendid mirth + And comfort those condemned to stay + Upon the dull and sombre earth. + + Some people ask: "What cruel chance + Made Martin's life so sad a story?" + Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, + And wore an overcoat of glory. + A fleck of sunlight in the street, + A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, + Such visions made each moment sweet + For this receptive ancient child. + + Because it was old Martin's lot + To be, not make, a decoration, + Shall we then scorn him, having not + His genius of appreciation? + Rich joy and love he got and gave; + His heart was merry as his dress; + Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave + Who did not gain, but was, success! + + + + +The Apartment House + + + + Severe against the pleasant arc of sky + The great stone box is cruelly displayed. + The street becomes more dreary from its shade, + And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. + Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, + Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade. + How worse than folly is their labor made + Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high! + + Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face + Gleam from a window far above the street. + This is a house of homes, a sacred place, + By human passion made divinely sweet. + How all the building thrills with sudden grace + Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet! + + + + +As Winds That Blow Against A Star + + (For Aline) + + + + Now by what whim of wanton chance + Do radiant eyes know sombre days? + And feet that shod in light should dance + Walk weary and laborious ways? + + But rays from Heaven, white and whole, + May penetrate the gloom of earth; + And tears but nourish, in your soul, + The glory of celestial mirth. + + The darts of toil and sorrow, sent + Against your peaceful beauty, are + As foolish and as impotent + As winds that blow against a star. + + + + +St. Laurence + + + + Within the broken Vatican + The murdered Pope is lying dead. + The soldiers of Valerian + Their evil hands are wet and red. + + Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits, + His cassock is his only mail. + The troops of Hell have burst the gates, + But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail. + + They have encompassed him with steel, + They spit upon his gentle face, + He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal + The Church's hidden treasure-place. + + Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, + Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee! + Since thou hast fought the goodly fight + A martyr's death is fixed for thee. + + St. Laurence, pray for us to bear + The faith which glorifies thy name. + St. Laurence, pray for us to share + The wounds of Love's consuming flame. + + + + +To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself + + + + When you had played with life a space + And made it drink and lust and sing, + You flung it back into God's face + And thought you did a noble thing. + "Lo, I have lived and loved," you said, + "And sung to fools too dull to hear me. + Now for a cool and grassy bed + With violets in blossom near me." + + Well, rest is good for weary feet, + Although they ran for no great prize; + And violets are very sweet, + Although their roots are in your eyes. + But hark to what the earthworms say + Who share with you your muddy haven: + "The fight was on -- you ran away. + You are a coward and a craven. + + "The rug is ruined where you bled; + It was a dirty way to die! + To put a bullet through your head + And make a silly woman cry! + You could not vex the merry stars + Nor make them heed you, dead or living. + Not all your puny anger mars + God's irresistible forgiving. + + "Yes, God forgives and men forget, + And you're forgiven and forgotten. + You might be gaily sinning yet + And quick and fresh instead of rotten. + And when you think of love and fame + And all that might have come to pass, + Then don't you feel a little shame? + And don't you think you were an ass?" + + + + +Memorial Day + + "Dulce et decorum est" + + + + The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, + But not of war it sings to-day. + The road is rhythmic with the feet + Of men-at-arms who come to pray. + + The roses blossom white and red + On tombs where weary soldiers lie; + Flags wave above the honored dead + And martial music cleaves the sky. + + Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, + They kept the faith and fought the fight. + Through flying lead and crimson steel + They plunged for Freedom and the Right. + + May we, their grateful children, learn + Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, + Who went through fire and death to earn + At last the accolade of God. + + In shining rank on rank arrayed + They march, the legions of the Lord; + He is their Captain unafraid, + The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword. + + + + +The Rosary + + + + Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings + Shall all men praise the Master of all song. + Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long; + And skilled must be the laureates of kings. + Silent, O lips that utter foolish things! + Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong! + How from your toil shall issue, white and strong, + Music like that God's chosen poet sings? + + There is one harp that any hand can play, + And from its strings what harmonies arise! + There is one song that any mouth can say, -- + A song that lingers when all singing dies. + When on their beads our Mother's children pray + Immortal music charms the grateful skies. + + + + +Vision + + (For Aline) + + + + Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful faces + Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream, + Yet did he seem + Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places. + + I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, + Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, + Yet have I seen + All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden. + + + + +To Certain Poets + + + + Now is the rhymer's honest trade + A thing for scornful laughter made. + + The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain, + These are the burden of our pain. + + Because of you did this befall, + You brought this shame upon us all. + + You little poets mincing there + With women's hearts and women's hair! + + How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be + To hear you lisp of "Poesie"! + + A heavy-handed blow, I think, + Would make your veins drip scented ink. + + You strut and smirk your little while + So mildly, delicately vile! + + Your tiny voices mock God's wrath, + You snails that crawl along His path! + + Why, what has God or man to do + With wet, amorphous things like you? + + This thing alone you have achieved: + Because of you, it is believed + + That all who earn their bread by rhyme + Are like yourselves, exuding slime. + + Oh, cease to write, for very shame, + Ere all men spit upon our name! + + Take up your needles, drop your pen, + And leave the poet's craft to men! + + + + +Love's Lantern + + (For Aline) + + + + Because the road was steep and long + And through a dark and lonely land, + God set upon my lips a song + And put a lantern in my hand. + + Through miles on weary miles of night + That stretch relentless in my way + My lantern burns serene and white, + An unexhausted cup of day. + + O golden lights and lights like wine, + How dim your boasted splendors are. + Behold this little lamp of mine; + It is more starlike than a star! + + + + +St. Alexis + + Patron of Beggars + + + + We who beg for bread as we daily tread + Country lane and city street, + Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway + To the saint with the vagrant feet. + Our altar light is a buttercup bright, + And our shrine is a bank of sod, + But still we share St. Alexis' care, + The Vagabond of God. + + They gave him a home in purple Rome + And a princess for his bride, + But he rowed away on his wedding day + Down the Tiber's rushing tide. + And he came to land on the Asian strand + Where the heathen people dwell; + As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed + And he saved their souls from hell. + + Bowed with years and pain he came back again + To his father's dwelling place. + There was none to see who this tramp might be, + For they knew not his bearded face. + But his father said, "Give him drink and bread + And a couch underneath the stair." + So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. + But he might not linger there. + + For when night came down on the seven-hilled town, + And the emperor hurried in, + Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near + Who will cleanse us of our sin," + Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain, + For his soul had fled afar, + From his fleshly home he had gone to roam + Where the gold-paved highways are. + + We who beg for bread as we daily tread + Country lane and city street, + Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway + To the saint with the vagrant feet. + Our altar light is a buttercup bright, + And our shrine is a bank of sod, + But still we share St. Alexis' care, + The Vagabond of God! + + + + +Folly + + (For A. K. K.) + + + + What distant mountains thrill and glow + Beneath our Lady Folly's tread? + Why has she left us, wise in woe, + Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? + We cannot love or dream or sing, + We are too cynical to pray, + There is no joy in anything + Since Lady Folly went away. + + Many a knight and gentle maid, + Whose glory shines from years gone by, + Through ignorance was unafraid + And as a fool knew how to die. + Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne + And broke the ranks of Hell with her, + And Folly's smile shone brightly on + Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper. + + Our minds are troubled and defiled + By study in a weary school. + O for the folly of the child! + The ready courage of the fool! + Lord, crush our knowledge utterly + And make us humble, simple men; + And cleansed of wisdom, let us see + Our Lady Folly's face again. + + + + +Madness + + (For Sara Teasdale) + + + + The lonely farm, the crowded street, + The palace and the slum, + Give welcome to my silent feet + As, bearing gifts, I come. + + Last night a beggar crouched alone, + A ragged helpless thing; + I set him on a moonbeam throne -- + Today he is a king. + + Last night a king in orb and crown + Held court with splendid cheer; + Today he tears his purple gown + And moans and shrieks in fear. + + Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, + Not land, nor sky, nor sea, + Nor love's artillery of tears + Can keep mine own from me. + + Serene, unchanging, ever fair, + I smile with secret mirth + And in a net of mine own hair + I swing the captive earth. + + + + +Poets + + + + Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells + That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. + Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells + Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. + + Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath + Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. + They shall not live who have not tasted death. + They only sing who are struck dumb by God. + + + + +Citizen of the World + + + + No longer of Him be it said + "He hath no place to lay His head." + + In every land a constant lamp + Flames by His small and mighty camp. + + There is no strange and distant place + That is not gladdened by His face. + + And every nation kneels to hail + The Splendour shining through Its veil. + + Cloistered beside the shouting street, + Silent, He calls me to His feet. + + Imprisoned for His love of me + He makes my spirit greatly free. + + And through my lips that uttered sin + The King of Glory enters in. + + + + +To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring + + (For Kenton) + + + + An iron hand has stilled the throats + That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee + And dammed the flood of silver notes + That drenched the world in melody. + The blosmy apple boughs are yearning + For their wild choristers' returning, + But no swift wings flash through the tree. + + Ye that were glad and fleet and strong, + Shall Silence take you in her net? + And shall Death quell that radiant song + Whose echo thrills the meadow yet? + Burst the frail web about you clinging + And charm Death's cruel heart with singing + Till with strange tears his eyes are wet. + + The scented morning of the year + Is old and stale now ye are gone. + No friendly songs the children hear + Among the bushes on the lawn. + When babies wander out a-Maying + Will ye, their bards, afar be straying? + Unhymned by you, what is the dawn? + + Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die. + Above the stars is set your nest. + Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly + And in the trees of Heaven rest. + And little children in their dreaming + Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming + And smile, by your clear music blest. + + + + +The Fourth Shepherd + + (For Thomas Walsh) + + + + I + + + On nights like this the huddled sheep + Are like white clouds upon the grass, + And merry herdsmen guard their sleep + And chat and watch the big stars pass. + + It is a pleasant thing to lie + Upon the meadow on the hill + With kindly fellowship near by + Of sheep and men of gentle will. + + I lean upon my broken crook + And dream of sheep and grass and men -- + O shameful eyes that cannot look + On any honest thing again! + + On bloody feet I clambered down + And fled the wages of my sin, + I am the leavings of the town, + And meanly serve its meanest inn. + + I tramp the courtyard stones in grief, + While sleep takes man and beast to her. + And every cloud is calling "Thief!" + And every star calls "Murderer!" + + + + II + + + The hand of God is sure and strong, + Nor shall a man forever flee + The bitter punishment of wrong. + The wrath of God is over me! + + With ashen bread and wine of tears + Shall I be solaced in my pain. + I wear through black and endless years + Upon my brow the mark of Cain. + + + + III + + + Poor vagabond, so old and mild, + Will they not keep him for a night? + And She, a woman great with child, + So frail and pitiful and white. + + Good people, since the tavern door + Is shut to you, come here instead. + See, I have cleansed my stable floor + And piled fresh hay to make a bed. + + Here is some milk and oaten cake. + Lie down and sleep and rest you fair, + Nor fear, O simple folk, to take + The bounty of a child of care. + + + + IV + + + On nights like this the huddled sheep -- + I never saw a night so fair. + How huge the sky is, and how deep! + And how the planets flash and glare! + + At dawn beside my drowsy flock + What winged music I have heard! + But now the clouds with singing rock + As if the sky were turning bird. + + O blinding Light, O blinding Light! + Burn through my heart with sweetest pain. + O flaming Song, most loudly bright, + Consume away my deadly stain! + + + + V + + + The stable glows against the sky, + And who are these that throng the way? + My three old comrades hasten by + And shining angels kneel and pray. + + The door swings wide -- I cannot go -- + I must and yet I dare not see. + Lord, who am I that I should know -- + Lord, God, be merciful to me! + + + + VI + + + O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece + Of new-washed sheep on April sod! + O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace, + O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God! + + + + +Easter + + + + The air is like a butterfly + With frail blue wings. + The happy earth looks at the sky + And sings. + + + + +Mount Houvenkopf + + + + Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned, + And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. + The thunder roars but cannot break his rest + And from his rugged face the tempests bound. + He does not heed the angry lightning's wound, + The raging blizzard is his harmless guest, + And human life is but a passing jest + To him who sees Time spin the years around. + + But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find + High vantage-points and view him from afar. + How low he seems to the ascended mind, + How brief he seems where all things endless are; + This little playmate of the mighty wind + This young companion of an ancient star. + + + + +The House with Nobody in It + + + + Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track + I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. + I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute + And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. + + I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; + That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. + I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; + For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. + + This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, + And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. + It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; + But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. + + If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid + I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. + I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be + And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. + + Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, + Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. + But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone + For the lack of something within it that it has never known. + + But a house that has done what a house should do, + a house that has sheltered life, + That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, + A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, + Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. + + So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track + I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, + Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, + For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. + + + + +Dave Lilly + + + + There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, + But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. + I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, + And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so. + + There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, + And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. + He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. + And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink. + + Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; + They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such. + But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish; + He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish. + + The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown + And I came to the brook I mentioned, + and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. + I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white + And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night. + + And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel + The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. + And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land + By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand. + + I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; + There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. + But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak + And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke. + + It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; + And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. + But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set + I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get. + + I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye + And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. + I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave + And put some flowers on it -- but this will be better for Dave. + + + + +Alarm Clocks + + + + When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm + Across green fields and yellow hills of hay + The little twittering birds laugh in his way + And poise triumphant on his shining arm. + He bears a sword of flame but not to harm + The wakened life that feels his quickening sway + And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!" + Take by his grace a new and alien charm. + + But in the city, like a wounded thing + That limps to cover from the angry chase, + He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, + And wanly mock his young and shameful face; + And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring + In many a high and dreary sleeping place. + + + + +Waverley + + 1814-1914 + + + + When, on a novel's newly printed page + We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, + And read of ways that harlots wander in, + And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage; + Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage, + Taps on her desk and bids the class begin + To con the problems that have always been + Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage; + + Then in what robes of honor habited + The laureled wizard of the North appears! + Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead, + Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears, + And formed that shining legion at whose head + Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years! + + +***** + + +The following biographical information is taken from the 1917 edition +of Jessie B. Rittenhouse's anthology of Modern Verse. + + +Kilmer, Joyce. Born at New Brunswick, New Jersey, December 6, 1886, +and graduated at Columbia University in 1908. After a short period +of teaching he became associated with Funk and Wagnalls Company, +where he remained from 1909 to 1912, when he assumed the position +of literary editor of "The Churchman". In 1913 Mr. Kilmer became +a member of the staff of the "New York Times", a position which +he still occupies. His volumes of poetry are: "A Summer of Love", 1911, +and "Trees, and Other Poems", 1914. + + +Kilmer died in France in 1918, and also published another volume, +"Main Street and Other Poems", 1917, as well as individual poems, +essays, etc. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Trees and Other Poems, by Joyce Kilmer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TREES AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 263.txt or 263.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/263/ + +Produced by A. Light + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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