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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/264-h.zip b/264-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c437375 --- /dev/null +++ b/264-h.zip diff --git a/264-h/264-h.htm b/264-h/264-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55d134b --- /dev/null +++ b/264-h/264-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1965 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Main Street and Other Poems, by Joyce Kilmer + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Main Street and Other Poems, by Alfred 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: Main Street and Other Poems + +Author: Alfred Joyce Kilmer + +Release Date: July 6, 2008 [EBook #264] +Last Updated: February 4, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and Linda Bowser, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Alfred Joyce Kilmer + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + [Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American <br /> (New Jersey & New York) Poet + — 1886-1918.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + [A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.] + </h4> + <h2> + To Mrs. Edmund Leamy + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS</b></big> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Main Street </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Roofs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Snowman in the Yard </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A Blue Valentine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Houses </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> In Memory </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Apology </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The Proud Poet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Lionel Johnson </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Gates and Doors </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The Robe of Christ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> The Singing Girl </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The Annunciation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Roses </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Visitation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Multiplication </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Thanksgiving </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Thorn </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Big Top </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Queen Elizabeth Speaks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Mid-ocean in War-time </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> In Memory of Rupert Brooke </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> The New School </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Easter Week </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Cathedral of Rheims </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Kings </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The White Ships and the Red </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Main Street + </h2> + <h3> + (For S. M. L.) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, + But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be + When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, + And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. + + Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, + And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; + I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, + Because I think it is humaner than any other street. + + A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, + And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: + It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, + But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends. + + There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, + And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. + And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy + That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy. + + The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train + They make the weary city street reverberate with pain: + But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart + Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. + + God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, + That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. + Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, + But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Roofs + </h2> + <h3> + (For Amelia Josephine Burr) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The road is wide and the stars are out + and the breath of the night is sweet, + And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet. + But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, + And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place. + + I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam + All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home: + The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day + Will wander only until he finds another place to stay. + + A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead; + Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed. + He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high, + But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky. + + If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong, + For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along. + And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows, + Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes. + + They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, + And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears. + It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, + But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Snowman in the Yard + </h2> + <h3> + (For Thomas Augustine Daly) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, + And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; + In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, + And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees. + + Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, + And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; + But when Winter comes, I have something there + that the Judge and the Hales have not, + And it's better worth having than all their wealth — + it's a snowman in the yard. + + The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; + The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; + The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, + And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow. + + But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, + A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: + And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid + For the tiny house with the trampled yard, + the yard where the snowman stands. + + They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears + To toil and suffer their life-time through, + because of the sin they sinned, + The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, + To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce + their flesh with the icy wind. + + But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, + Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: + And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, + For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Blue Valentine + </h2> + <h3> + (For Aline) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Monsignore, + Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, + Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, + Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, + I respectfully salute you, + I genuflect + And I kiss your episcopal ring. + + It is not, Monsignore, + The fragrant memory of your holy life, + Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, + Which causes me now to address you. + But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, + It seems appropriate to me to state + According to a venerable and agreeable custom, + That I love a beautiful lady. + Her eyes, Monsignore, + Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections + On everything that she looks at, + Such as a wall + Or the moon + Or my heart. + It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, + Yet not quite like it, + For the blueness is not transparent, + Only translucent. + Her soul's light shines through, + But her soul cannot be seen. + It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise + And noble. + She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, + Made in the manner of the Japanese. + It is very blue — + I think that her eyes have made it more blue, + Sweetly staining it + As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. + Loving her, Monsignore, + I love all her attributes; + But I believe + That even if I did not love her + I would love the blueness of her eyes, + And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. + + Monsignore, + I have never before troubled you with a request. + The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas + are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, + Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, + And your brother bishop, my patron, + The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. + But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, + Do me this favour: + When you this morning make your way + To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses + because of her who sits upon it, + When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, + I beg you, say to her: + "Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, + Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you + For wearing a blue gown." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Houses + </h2> + <h3> + (For Aline) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When you shall die and to the sky + Serenely, delicately go, + Saint Peter, when he sees you there, + Will clash his keys and say: + "Now talk to her, Sir Christopher! + And hurry, Michelangelo! + She wants to play at building, + And you've got to help her play!" + + Every architect will help erect + A palace on a lawn of cloud, + With rainbow beams and a sunset roof, + And a level star-tiled floor; + And at your will you may use the skill + Of this gay angelic crowd, + When a house is made you will throw it down, + And they'll build you twenty more. + + For Christopher Wren and these other men + Who used to build on earth + Will love to go to work again + If they may work for you. + "This porch," you'll say, "should go this way!" + And they'll work for all they're worth, + And they'll come to your palace every morning, + And ask you what to do. + + And when night comes down on Heaven-town + (If there should be night up there) + You will choose the house you like the best + Of all that you can see: + And its walls will glow as you drowsily go + To the bed up the golden stair, + And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep + A room in your house for me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Memory + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Serene and beautiful and very wise, + Most erudite in curious Grecian lore, + You lay and read your learned books, and bore + A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs. + The song within your heart could never rise + Until love bade it spread its wings and soar. + Nor could you look on Beauty's face before + A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes. + + Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; + Love is a poignant and accustomed pain. + It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder; + It is a linnet's fluting after rain. + Love's voice is through your song; above and under + And in each note to echo and remain. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Because Mankind is glad and brave and young, + Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow, + All joys and passions that Mankind may know + By you were nobly felt and nobly sung. + Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung + By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so, + Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe, + A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung. + + So did the ghosts of toiling children hover + About the piteous portals of your mind; + Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover + The angry scar to which the world was blind: + And it was grief that made Mankind your lover, + And it was grief that made you love Mankind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Before Christ left the Citadel of Light, + To tread the dreadful way of human birth, + His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth + And those who saw it wept with joy and fright. + "Thou art Apollo, than the sun more bright!" + They cried. "Our music is of little worth, + But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth + Thou god of song, thou lord of lyric might!" + + O singing pilgrim! who could love and follow + Your lover Christ, through even love's despair, + You knew within the cypress-darkened hollow + The feet that on the mountain are so fair. + For it was Christ that was your own Apollo, + And thorns were in the laurel on your hair. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Apology + </h2> + <h3> + (For Eleanor Rogers Cox) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For blows on the fort of evil + That never shows a breach, + For terrible life-long races + To a goal no foot can reach, + For reckless leaps into darkness + With hands outstretched to a star, + There is jubilation in Heaven + Where the great dead poets are. + + There is joy over disappointment + And delight in hopes that were vain. + Each poet is glad there was no cure + To stop his lonely pain. + For nothing keeps a poet + In his high singing mood + Like unappeasable hunger + For unattainable food. + + So fools are glad of the folly + That made them weep and sing, + And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne + And Drummond for his king. + They know that on flinty sorrow + And failure and desire + The steel of their souls was hammered + To bring forth the lyric fire. + + Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, + McDonough and Hunt and Pearse + See now why their hatred of tyrants + Was so insistently fierce. + Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp + To cheat a poet's eye? + Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause + In which to sing and to die! + + So not for the Rainbow taken + And the magical White Bird snared + The poets sing grateful carols + In the place to which they have fared; + But for their lifetime's passion, + The quest that was fruitless and long, + They chorus their loud thanksgiving + To the thorn-crowned Master of Song. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Proud Poet + </h2> + <h3> + (For Shaemas O Sheel) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, + His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. + "Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said, + "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!" + "You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell + For the idea you express I will not listen to: + I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well, + Without having to pay attention to orators like you. + + "When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work + You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land. + There was Byron who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk, + And David, the Singing King of the Jews, + who was born with a sword in his hand. + It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died, + And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong; + And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride, + Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song. + + "And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart + As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry. + It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart, + It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be. + It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing + That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth. + For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king, + And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth. + + "There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind, + Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night; + For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind, + And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight. + And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long, + He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all, + Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, + And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall. + + "And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score + Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain. + And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for, + Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain. + It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun + And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: + But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, + Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lionel Johnson + </h2> + <h3> + (For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a murkier tinge in London's air + As if the honest fog blushed black for shame. + Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim, + And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire. + The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere, + But in their midst a radiant lily came + Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame, + Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair. + + And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King", + Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land? + Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing + To take in his thine emulative hand? + Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring + Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously, + And match and blend thy words with curious art? + For Song, one saith, is but a human heart + Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. + Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee! + Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart + From all who traffic in Apollo's mart, + On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be! + + Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God, + Singing His praise when other songs are done. + But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod, + Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won? + O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod! + O happy moth, that flew into the Sun! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Gates and Doors + </h2> + <h3> + (For Richardson Little Wright) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a gentle hostler + (And blessed be his name!) + He opened up the stable + The night Our Lady came. + Our Lady and Saint Joseph, + He gave them food and bed, + And Jesus Christ has given him + A glory round his head. + + So let the gate swing open + However poor the yard, + Lest weary people visit you + And find their passage barred; + Unlatch the door at midnight + And let your lantern's glow + Shine out to guide the traveler's feet + To you across the snow. + + There was a courteous hostler + (He is in Heaven to-night) + He held Our Lady's bridle + And helped her to alight; + He spread clean straw before her + Whereon she might lie down, + And Jesus Christ has given him + An everlasting crown. + + Unlock the door this evening + And let your gate swing wide, + Let all who ask for shelter + Come speedily inside. + What if your yard be narrow? + What if your house be small? + There is a Guest is coming + Will glorify it all. + + There was a joyous hostler + Who knelt on Christmas morn + Beside the radiant manger + Wherein his Lord was born. + His heart was full of laughter, + His soul was full of bliss + When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, + Gave him His hand to kiss. + + Unbar your heart this evening + And keep no stranger out, + Take from your soul's great portal + The barrier of doubt. + To humble folk and weary + Give hearty welcoming, + Your breast shall be to-morrow + The cradle of a King. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Robe of Christ + </h2> + <h3> + (For Cecil Chesterton) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At the foot of the Cross on Calvary + Three soldiers sat and diced, + And one of them was the Devil + And he won the Robe of Christ. + + When the Devil comes in his proper form + To the chamber where I dwell, + I know him and make the Sign of the Cross + Which drives him back to Hell. + + And when he comes like a friendly man + And puts his hand in mine, + The fervour in his voice is not + From love or joy or wine. + + And when he comes like a woman, + With lovely, smiling eyes, + Black dreams float over his golden head + Like a swarm of carrion flies. + + Now many a million tortured souls + In his red halls there be: + Why does he spend his subtle craft + In hunting after me? + + Kings, queens and crested warriors + Whose memory rings through time, + These are his prey, and what to him + Is this poor man of rhyme, + + That he, with such laborious skill, + Should change from role to role, + Should daily act so many a part + To get my little soul? + + Oh, he can be the forest, + And he can be the sun, + Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest + When the weary day is done. + + I saw him through a thousand veils, + And has not this sufficed? + Now, must I look on the Devil robed + In the radiant Robe of Christ? + + He comes, and his face is sad and mild, + With thorns his head is crowned; + There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, + And in each hand a wound. + + How can I tell, who am a fool, + If this be Christ or no? + Those bleeding hands outstretched to me! + Those eyes that love me so! + + I see the Robe — I look — I hope — + I fear — but there is one + Who will direct my troubled mind; + Christ's Mother knows her Son. + + O Mother of Good Counsel, lend + Intelligence to me! + Encompass me with wisdom, + Thou Tower of Ivory! + + "This is the Man of Lies," she says, + "Disguised with fearful art: + He has the wounded hands and feet, + But not the wounded heart." + + Beside the Cross on Calvary + She watched them as they diced. + She saw the Devil join the game + And win the Robe of Christ. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Singing Girl + </h2> + <h3> + (For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a little maiden + In blue and silver drest, + She sang to God in Heaven + And God within her breast. + + It flooded me with pleasure, + It pierced me like a sword, + When this young maiden sang: "My soul + Doth magnify the Lord." + + The stars sing all together + And hear the angels sing, + But they said they had never heard + So beautiful a thing. + + Saint Mary and Saint Joseph, + And Saint Elizabeth, + Pray for us poets now + And at the hour of death. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Annunciation + </h2> + <h3> + (For Helen Parry Eden) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith. + Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed; + She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named, + Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death. + Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth; + Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed, + Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed, + And human lips have trembled in God's breath. + + O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover + With thy white self, whereon no stain can be, + Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover, + Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee. + About thy head celestial legions hover, + Chanting the praise of thy humility. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Roses + </h2> + <h3> + (For Katherine Bregy) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, + For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. + I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be, + From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree. + + But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet + I found He had His roses a million times more sweet. + There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand, + And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land. + + Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told, + That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold. + Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red, + A little wreath of roses around His radiant head. + + A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face, + And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place. + He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I, + And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Visitation + </h2> + <h3> + (For Louise Imogen Guiney) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is a wall of flesh before the eyes + Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. + It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring + Before mankind the Glory of the skies. + Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise + And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing, + With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming. + She knows her hidden God, and prophesies. + + Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry + Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath. + Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry, + Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth. + And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry + Within our hearts, that we may conquer death. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Multiplication + </h2> + <h3> + (For S. M. E.) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well; + I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell; + O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light! + O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight! + + I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train, + And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain. + O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be + In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee? + + But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land + I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand. + Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night, + And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might. + + Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet, + Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street: + The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go, + O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Thanksgiving + </h2> + <h3> + (For John Bunker) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The roar of the world is in my ears. + Thank God for the roar of the world! + Thank God for the mighty tide of fears + Against me always hurled! + + Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, + And the sting of His chastening rod! + Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, + And Oh, thank God for God! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Thorn + </h2> + <h3> + (For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The garden of God is a radiant place, + And every flower has a holy face: + Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, + But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God. + + David is the song upon God's lips, + And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: + And Gabriel's the breath of His command, + But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand. + + The Ivory Tower is fair to see, + And may her walls encompass me! + But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, + Saint Michael, show me how to fight! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Big Top + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart + And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. + I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art, + And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away. + + I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, + Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng. + It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air + And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song. + + Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill + Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face + To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will + As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race. + + Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife, + And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, + By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life; + And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing. + + For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same. + They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, + And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim; + For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth. + + But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, + Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live, + Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress — + What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give? + + Well — here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand, + One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin, + And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand, + And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein. + + You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look; + You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear; + Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. + O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Queen Elizabeth Speaks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, + My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. + So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God, + Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mid-ocean in War-time + </h2> + <h3> + (For My Mother) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fragile splendour of the level sea, + The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, + Make of this vessel an enchanted place + Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. + Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be + Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, + And the old stars, in their unending race, + Shall heed and envy young humanity. + + And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, + These waters blush a strange and awful red. + Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey + Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. + And these stars smile their immemorial way + On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Memory of Rupert Brooke + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In alien earth, across a troubled sea, + His body lies that was so fair and young. + His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; + His arm is still, that struck to make men free. + But let no cloud of lamentation be + Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. + We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, + We keep the vision of his chivalry. + + So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, + Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. + To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings + With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; + And David rests beneath Eternal wings, + Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The New School + </h2> + <h3> + (For My Mother) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet + Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, + And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street + Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away. + + The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls + Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, + And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls + A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made. + + For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, + And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, + And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, + And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord. + + They have taken their youth and mirth away + from the study and playing-ground + To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; + Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, + And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die. + + And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, + A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. + And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, + A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said. + + And there will be ghosts in the old school, + brave ghosts with laughing eyes, + On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; + They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, + A flame that they took with strong young hands + from the altar-fires of God. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Easter Week + </h2> + <h3> + (In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave.") + William Butler Yeats. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave." + Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn + A hue so radiantly brave? + + There was a rain of blood that day, + Red rain in gay blue April weather. + It blessed the earth till it gave birth + To valour thick as blooms of heather. + + Romantic Ireland never dies! + O'Leary lies in fertile ground, + And songs and spears throughout the years + Rise up where patriot graves are found. + + Immortal patriots newly dead + And ye that bled in bygone years, + What banners rise before your eyes? + What is the tune that greets your ears? + + The young Republic's banners smile + For many a mile where troops convene. + O'Connell Street is loudly sweet + With strains of Wearing of the Green. + + The soil of Ireland throbs and glows + With life that knows the hour is here + To strike again like Irishmen + For that which Irishmen hold dear. + + Lord Edward leaves his resting place + And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. + See Emmet leap from troubled sleep + To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! + + There is no rope can strangle song + And not for long death takes his toll. + No prison bars can dim the stars + Nor quicklime eat the living soul. + + Romantic Ireland is not old. + For years untold her youth will shine. + Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, + The blood of martyrs is her wine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cathedral of Rheims + </h2> + <h3> + (From the French of Emile Verhaeren) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He who walks through the meadows of Champagne + At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, + Sees it draw near + Like some great mountain set upon the plain, + From radiant dawn until the close of day, + Nearer it grows + To him who goes + Across the country. When tall towers lay + Their shadowy pall + Upon his way, + He enters, where + The solid stone is hollowed deep by all + Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. + + Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings + Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, + Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls + What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? + Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, + Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep + And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep + An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. + For God thou has known fear, when from His side + Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, + But still the sky was bountiful and blue + And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. + Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; + And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass + The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; + Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass + Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; + Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white + Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, + The brows of saints with venerable names, + And in the night erect a fiery wall. + A great but silent fervour burns in all + Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, + And know that down below, beside the Rhine — + Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line — + With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come. + + Suddenly, each knows fear; + Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, + The hostile banners blaze against the sky + And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. + Now war has come, and peace is at an end. + On Paris town the German troops descend. + They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. + And now, as to so many weary men, + The glorious temple gives them welcome, when + It meets them at the bottom of the plain. + + At once, they set their cannon in its way. + There is no gable now, nor wall + That does not suffer, night and day, + As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. + The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; + The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir + Are circled, hour by hour, + With thundering bands of fire + And Death is scattered broadcast among men. + + And then + That which was splendid with baptismal grace; + The stately arches soaring into space, + The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, + The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, + The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, + The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, + All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord + Were struck and broken by the wanton sword + Of sacrilegious lust. + + O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! + Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! + The crawling flames, like adders glistening + Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. + Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, + The soul that always loved the just and fair. + Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, + The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, + The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare + Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; + The horror everywhere did range and swell, + The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, + Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. + + Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, + The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; + The German army, fighting for its life, + Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; + And, as they near this place + The imperial eagles see + Before them in their flight, + Here, in the solemn night, + The old cathedral, to the years to be + Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Kings + </h2> + <h3> + (For the Rev. James B. Dollard) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Kings of the earth are men of might, + And cities are burned for their delight, + And the skies rain death in the silent night, + And the hills belch death all day! + + But the King of Heaven, Who made them all, + Is fair and gentle, and very small; + He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall — + Let them think of Him to-day! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The White Ships and the Red + </h2> + <h3> + (For Alden March) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With drooping sail and pennant + That never a wind may reach, + They float in sunless waters + Beside a sunless beach. + Their mighty masts and funnels + Are white as driven snow, + And with a pallid radiance + Their ghostly bulwarks glow. + + Here is a Spanish galleon + That once with gold was gay, + Here is a Roman trireme + Whose hues outshone the day. + But Tyrian dyes have faded, + And prows that once were bright + With rainbow stains wear only + Death's livid, dreadful white. + + White as the ice that clove her + That unforgotten day, + Among her pallid sisters + The grim Titanic lay. + And through the leagues above her + She looked aghast, and said: + "What is this living ship that comes + Where every ship is dead?" + + The ghostly vessels trembled + From ruined stern to prow; + What was this thing of terror + That broke their vigil now? + Down through the startled ocean + A mighty vessel came, + Not white, as all dead ships must be, + But red, like living flame! + + The pale green waves about her + Were swiftly, strangely dyed, + By the great scarlet stream that flowed + From out her wounded side. + And all her decks were scarlet + And all her shattered crew. + She sank among the white ghost ships + And stained them through and through. + + The grim Titanic greeted her + "And who art thou?" she said; + "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet + Arrayed in living red? + We are the ships of sorrow + Who spend the weary night, + Until the dawn of Judgment Day, + Obscure and still and white." + + "Nay," said the scarlet visitor, + "Though I sink through the sea, + A ruined thing that was a ship, + I sink not as did ye. + For ye met with your destiny + By storm or rock or fight, + So through the lagging centuries + Ye wear your robes of white. + + "But never crashing iceberg + Nor honest shot of foe, + Nor hidden reef has sent me + The way that I must go. + My wound that stains the waters, + My blood that is like flame, + Bear witness to a loathly deed, + A deed without a name. + + "I went not forth to battle, + I carried friendly men, + The children played about my decks, + The women sang — and then — + And then — the sun blushed scarlet + And Heaven hid its face, + The world that God created + Became a shameful place! + + "My wrong cries out for vengeance, + The blow that sent me here + Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream + Has reached Jehovah's ear. + Not all the seven oceans + Shall wash away that stain; + Upon a brow that wears a crown + I am the brand of Cain." + + When God's great voice assembles + The fleet on Judgment Day, + The ghosts of ruined ships will rise + In sea and strait and bay. + Though they have lain for ages + Beneath the changeless flood, + They shall be white as silver, + But one — shall be like blood. +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + The following biographical information is from the Occasional Notes to 'A + Treasury of War Poetry', 1919, edited by George Herbert Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Kilmer, Joyce. He was born in New Brunswick, N.J., December 6, 1886. He + had first joined the Officers' Reserve Corps, but soon resigned. Within + seventeen days after the entrance of the United States into the war he + left his journalistic career to enlist as a Private in the Seventh + Regiment, National Guard, New York. Shortly before the Seventh left New + York for Spartanburg, S.C., he was transferred at his own request to the + 165th U.S. Infantry, formerly the 69th National Guard Regiment of New + York. He accompanied the regiment as a Private to Camp Mills, Long Island. + He was transferred from Company H to Headquarters Company, and became + Senior Regimental Statistician. The regiment sailed for France in October, + 1917, and there he was placed in the Adjutant's Office and made Sergeant. + Thereafter he was attached to the Regimental Intelligence Staff as an + observer, and showed great fidelity and courage in the tasks to which he + was assigned. He was killed in action on July 30, 1918, while trying to + locate hostile machine-guns in the Wood of the Burned Bridge, on the + Ourcq. His war writings may be found in 'Main Street, and other Poems', + and 'Joyce Kilmer, Poems, Essays and Letters'. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Main Street and Other Poems, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 264-h.htm or 264-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/264/ + +Produced by A. Light, and Linda Bowser, and David Widger + +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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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: Main Street and Other Poems + +Author: Alfred Joyce Kilmer + +Release Date: July 6, 2008 [EBook #264] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and Linda Bowser + + + + + +MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS + +by Joyce Kilmer + +[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American (New Jersey & New York) Poet -- +1886-1918.] + + +[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.] + + + +[Note on text: There were no significant italics in this text. Lines +longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, and the +continuation is indented two spaces. This etext was transcribed from a +1917 (original) edition.] + + +To Mrs. Edmund Leamy + + + + +Contents + + + + Main Street + Roofs + The Snowman in the Yard + A Blue Valentine + Houses + In Memory + Apology + The Proud Poet + Lionel Johnson + Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. + Gates and Doors + The Robe of Christ + The Singing Girl + The Annunciation + Roses + The Visitation + Multiplication + Thanksgiving + The Thorn + The Big Top + Queen Elizabeth Speaks + Mid-ocean in War-time + In Memory of Rupert Brooke + The New School + Easter Week + The Cathedral of Rheims + Kings + The White Ships and the Red + + + + + +MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS + + + + +Main Street + +(For S. M. L.) + + + + I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, + But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be + When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, + And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. + + Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, + And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; + I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, + Because I think it is humaner than any other street. + + A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, + And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: + It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, + But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends. + + There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, + And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. + And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy + That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy. + + The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train + They make the weary city street reverberate with pain: + But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart + Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. + + God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, + That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. + Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, + But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown. + + + + +Roofs + +(For Amelia Josephine Burr) + + + + The road is wide and the stars are out + and the breath of the night is sweet, + And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet. + But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, + And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place. + + I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam + All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home: + The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day + Will wander only until he finds another place to stay. + + A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead; + Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed. + He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high, + But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky. + + If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong, + For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along. + And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows, + Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes. + + They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, + And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears. + It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, + But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are. + + + + +The Snowman in the Yard + +(For Thomas Augustine Daly) + + + + The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, + And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; + In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, + And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees. + + Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, + And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; + But when Winter comes, I have something there + that the Judge and the Hales have not, + And it's better worth having than all their wealth -- + it's a snowman in the yard. + + The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; + The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; + The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, + And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow. + + But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, + A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: + And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid + For the tiny house with the trampled yard, + the yard where the snowman stands. + + They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears + To toil and suffer their life-time through, + because of the sin they sinned, + The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, + To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce + their flesh with the icy wind. + + But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, + Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: + And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, + For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard. + + + + +A Blue Valentine + +(For Aline) + + + + Monsignore, + Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, + Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, + Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, + I respectfully salute you, + I genuflect + And I kiss your episcopal ring. + + It is not, Monsignore, + The fragrant memory of your holy life, + Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, + Which causes me now to address you. + But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, + It seems appropriate to me to state + According to a venerable and agreeable custom, + That I love a beautiful lady. + Her eyes, Monsignore, + Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections + On everything that she looks at, + Such as a wall + Or the moon + Or my heart. + It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, + Yet not quite like it, + For the blueness is not transparent, + Only translucent. + Her soul's light shines through, + But her soul cannot be seen. + It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise + And noble. + She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, + Made in the manner of the Japanese. + It is very blue -- + I think that her eyes have made it more blue, + Sweetly staining it + As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. + Loving her, Monsignore, + I love all her attributes; + But I believe + That even if I did not love her + I would love the blueness of her eyes, + And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. + + Monsignore, + I have never before troubled you with a request. + The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas + are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, + Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, + And your brother bishop, my patron, + The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. + But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, + Do me this favour: + When you this morning make your way + To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses + because of her who sits upon it, + When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, + I beg you, say to her: + "Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, + Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you + For wearing a blue gown." + + + + +Houses + +(For Aline) + + + + When you shall die and to the sky + Serenely, delicately go, + Saint Peter, when he sees you there, + Will clash his keys and say: + "Now talk to her, Sir Christopher! + And hurry, Michelangelo! + She wants to play at building, + And you've got to help her play!" + + Every architect will help erect + A palace on a lawn of cloud, + With rainbow beams and a sunset roof, + And a level star-tiled floor; + And at your will you may use the skill + Of this gay angelic crowd, + When a house is made you will throw it down, + And they'll build you twenty more. + + For Christopher Wren and these other men + Who used to build on earth + Will love to go to work again + If they may work for you. + "This porch," you'll say, "should go this way!" + And they'll work for all they're worth, + And they'll come to your palace every morning, + And ask you what to do. + + And when night comes down on Heaven-town + (If there should be night up there) + You will choose the house you like the best + Of all that you can see: + And its walls will glow as you drowsily go + To the bed up the golden stair, + And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep + A room in your house for me. + + + + +In Memory + + + + I + + Serene and beautiful and very wise, + Most erudite in curious Grecian lore, + You lay and read your learned books, and bore + A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs. + The song within your heart could never rise + Until love bade it spread its wings and soar. + Nor could you look on Beauty's face before + A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes. + + Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; + Love is a poignant and accustomed pain. + It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder; + It is a linnet's fluting after rain. + Love's voice is through your song; above and under + And in each note to echo and remain. + + + II + + Because Mankind is glad and brave and young, + Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow, + All joys and passions that Mankind may know + By you were nobly felt and nobly sung. + Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung + By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so, + Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe, + A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung. + + So did the ghosts of toiling children hover + About the piteous portals of your mind; + Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover + The angry scar to which the world was blind: + And it was grief that made Mankind your lover, + And it was grief that made you love Mankind. + + + III + + Before Christ left the Citadel of Light, + To tread the dreadful way of human birth, + His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth + And those who saw it wept with joy and fright. + "Thou art Apollo, than the sun more bright!" + They cried. "Our music is of little worth, + But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth + Thou god of song, thou lord of lyric might!" + + O singing pilgrim! who could love and follow + Your lover Christ, through even love's despair, + You knew within the cypress-darkened hollow + The feet that on the mountain are so fair. + For it was Christ that was your own Apollo, + And thorns were in the laurel on your hair. + + + + +Apology + +(For Eleanor Rogers Cox) + + + + For blows on the fort of evil + That never shows a breach, + For terrible life-long races + To a goal no foot can reach, + For reckless leaps into darkness + With hands outstretched to a star, + There is jubilation in Heaven + Where the great dead poets are. + + There is joy over disappointment + And delight in hopes that were vain. + Each poet is glad there was no cure + To stop his lonely pain. + For nothing keeps a poet + In his high singing mood + Like unappeasable hunger + For unattainable food. + + So fools are glad of the folly + That made them weep and sing, + And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne + And Drummond for his king. + They know that on flinty sorrow + And failure and desire + The steel of their souls was hammered + To bring forth the lyric fire. + + Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, + McDonough and Hunt and Pearse + See now why their hatred of tyrants + Was so insistently fierce. + Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp + To cheat a poet's eye? + Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause + In which to sing and to die! + + So not for the Rainbow taken + And the magical White Bird snared + The poets sing grateful carols + In the place to which they have fared; + But for their lifetime's passion, + The quest that was fruitless and long, + They chorus their loud thanksgiving + To the thorn-crowned Master of Song. + + + + +The Proud Poet + +(For Shaemas O Sheel) + + + + One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, + His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. + "Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said, + "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!" + "You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell + For the idea you express I will not listen to: + I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well, + Without having to pay attention to orators like you. + + "When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work + You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land. + There was Byron who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk, + And David, the Singing King of the Jews, + who was born with a sword in his hand. + It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died, + And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong; + And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride, + Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song. + + "And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart + As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry. + It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart, + It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be. + It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing + That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth. + For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king, + And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth. + + "There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind, + Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night; + For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind, + And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight. + And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long, + He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all, + Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, + And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall. + + "And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score + Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain. + And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for, + Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain. + It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun + And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: + But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, + Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again." + + + + +Lionel Johnson + +(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.) + + + + There was a murkier tinge in London's air + As if the honest fog blushed black for shame. + Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim, + And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire. + The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere, + But in their midst a radiant lily came + Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame, + Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair. + + And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King", + Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land? + Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing + To take in his thine emulative hand? + Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring + Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand? + + + + +Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. + + + + Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously, + And match and blend thy words with curious art? + For Song, one saith, is but a human heart + Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. + Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee! + Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart + From all who traffic in Apollo's mart, + On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be! + + Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God, + Singing His praise when other songs are done. + But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod, + Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won? + O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod! + O happy moth, that flew into the Sun! + + + + +Gates and Doors + +(For Richardson Little Wright) + + + + There was a gentle hostler + (And blessed be his name!) + He opened up the stable + The night Our Lady came. + Our Lady and Saint Joseph, + He gave them food and bed, + And Jesus Christ has given him + A glory round his head. + + So let the gate swing open + However poor the yard, + Lest weary people visit you + And find their passage barred; + Unlatch the door at midnight + And let your lantern's glow + Shine out to guide the traveler's feet + To you across the snow. + + There was a courteous hostler + (He is in Heaven to-night) + He held Our Lady's bridle + And helped her to alight; + He spread clean straw before her + Whereon she might lie down, + And Jesus Christ has given him + An everlasting crown. + + Unlock the door this evening + And let your gate swing wide, + Let all who ask for shelter + Come speedily inside. + What if your yard be narrow? + What if your house be small? + There is a Guest is coming + Will glorify it all. + + There was a joyous hostler + Who knelt on Christmas morn + Beside the radiant manger + Wherein his Lord was born. + His heart was full of laughter, + His soul was full of bliss + When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, + Gave him His hand to kiss. + + Unbar your heart this evening + And keep no stranger out, + Take from your soul's great portal + The barrier of doubt. + To humble folk and weary + Give hearty welcoming, + Your breast shall be to-morrow + The cradle of a King. + + + + +The Robe of Christ + +(For Cecil Chesterton) + + + + At the foot of the Cross on Calvary + Three soldiers sat and diced, + And one of them was the Devil + And he won the Robe of Christ. + + When the Devil comes in his proper form + To the chamber where I dwell, + I know him and make the Sign of the Cross + Which drives him back to Hell. + + And when he comes like a friendly man + And puts his hand in mine, + The fervour in his voice is not + From love or joy or wine. + + And when he comes like a woman, + With lovely, smiling eyes, + Black dreams float over his golden head + Like a swarm of carrion flies. + + Now many a million tortured souls + In his red halls there be: + Why does he spend his subtle craft + In hunting after me? + + Kings, queens and crested warriors + Whose memory rings through time, + These are his prey, and what to him + Is this poor man of rhyme, + + That he, with such laborious skill, + Should change from role to role, + Should daily act so many a part + To get my little soul? + + Oh, he can be the forest, + And he can be the sun, + Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest + When the weary day is done. + + I saw him through a thousand veils, + And has not this sufficed? + Now, must I look on the Devil robed + In the radiant Robe of Christ? + + He comes, and his face is sad and mild, + With thorns his head is crowned; + There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, + And in each hand a wound. + + How can I tell, who am a fool, + If this be Christ or no? + Those bleeding hands outstretched to me! + Those eyes that love me so! + + I see the Robe -- I look -- I hope -- + I fear -- but there is one + Who will direct my troubled mind; + Christ's Mother knows her Son. + + O Mother of Good Counsel, lend + Intelligence to me! + Encompass me with wisdom, + Thou Tower of Ivory! + + "This is the Man of Lies," she says, + "Disguised with fearful art: + He has the wounded hands and feet, + But not the wounded heart." + + Beside the Cross on Calvary + She watched them as they diced. + She saw the Devil join the game + And win the Robe of Christ. + + + + +The Singing Girl + +(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.) + + + + There was a little maiden + In blue and silver drest, + She sang to God in Heaven + And God within her breast. + + It flooded me with pleasure, + It pierced me like a sword, + When this young maiden sang: "My soul + Doth magnify the Lord." + + The stars sing all together + And hear the angels sing, + But they said they had never heard + So beautiful a thing. + + Saint Mary and Saint Joseph, + And Saint Elizabeth, + Pray for us poets now + And at the hour of death. + + + + +The Annunciation + +(For Helen Parry Eden) + + + + "Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith. + Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed; + She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named, + Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death. + Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth; + Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed, + Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed, + And human lips have trembled in God's breath. + + O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover + With thy white self, whereon no stain can be, + Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover, + Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee. + About thy head celestial legions hover, + Chanting the praise of thy humility. + + + + +Roses + +(For Katherine Bregy) + + + + I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, + For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. + I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be, + From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree. + + But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet + I found He had His roses a million times more sweet. + There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand, + And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land. + + Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told, + That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold. + Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red, + A little wreath of roses around His radiant head. + + A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face, + And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place. + He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I, + And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die. + + + + +The Visitation + +(For Louise Imogen Guiney) + + + + There is a wall of flesh before the eyes + Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. + It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring + Before mankind the Glory of the skies. + Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise + And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing, + With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming. + She knows her hidden God, and prophesies. + + Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry + Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath. + Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry, + Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth. + And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry + Within our hearts, that we may conquer death. + + + + +Multiplication + +(For S. M. E.) + + + + I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well; + I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell; + O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light! + O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight! + + I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train, + And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain. + O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be + In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee? + + But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land + I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand. + Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night, + And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might. + + Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet, + Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street: + The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go, + O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so? + + + + +Thanksgiving + +(For John Bunker) + + + + The roar of the world is in my ears. + Thank God for the roar of the world! + Thank God for the mighty tide of fears + Against me always hurled! + + Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, + And the sting of His chastening rod! + Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, + And Oh, thank God for God! + + + + +The Thorn + +(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.) + + + + The garden of God is a radiant place, + And every flower has a holy face: + Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, + But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God. + + David is the song upon God's lips, + And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: + And Gabriel's the breath of His command, + But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand. + + The Ivory Tower is fair to see, + And may her walls encompass me! + But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, + Saint Michael, show me how to fight! + + + + +The Big Top + + + + The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart + And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. + I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art, + And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away. + + I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, + Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng. + It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air + And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song. + + Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill + Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face + To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will + As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race. + + Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife, + And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, + By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life; + And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing. + + For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same. + They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, + And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim; + For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth. + + But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, + Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live, + Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress -- + What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give? + + Well -- here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand, + One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin, + And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand, + And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein. + + You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look; + You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear; + Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. + O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here! + + + + +Queen Elizabeth Speaks + + + + My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, + My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. + So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God, + Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod. + + + + +Mid-ocean in War-time + +(For My Mother) + + + + The fragile splendour of the level sea, + The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, + Make of this vessel an enchanted place + Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. + Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be + Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, + And the old stars, in their unending race, + Shall heed and envy young humanity. + + And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, + These waters blush a strange and awful red. + Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey + Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. + And these stars smile their immemorial way + On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead! + + + + +In Memory of Rupert Brooke + + + + In alien earth, across a troubled sea, + His body lies that was so fair and young. + His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; + His arm is still, that struck to make men free. + But let no cloud of lamentation be + Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. + We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, + We keep the vision of his chivalry. + + So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, + Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. + To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings + With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; + And David rests beneath Eternal wings, + Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword. + + + + +The New School + +(For My Mother) + + + + The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet + Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, + And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street + Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away. + + The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls + Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, + And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls + A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made. + + For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, + And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, + And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, + And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord. + + They have taken their youth and mirth away + from the study and playing-ground + To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; + Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, + And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die. + + And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, + A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. + And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, + A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said. + + And there will be ghosts in the old school, + brave ghosts with laughing eyes, + On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; + They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, + A flame that they took with strong young hands + from the altar-fires of God. + + + + +Easter Week + +(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) + + + ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave.") + William Butler Yeats. + + + + "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave." + Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn + A hue so radiantly brave? + + There was a rain of blood that day, + Red rain in gay blue April weather. + It blessed the earth till it gave birth + To valour thick as blooms of heather. + + Romantic Ireland never dies! + O'Leary lies in fertile ground, + And songs and spears throughout the years + Rise up where patriot graves are found. + + Immortal patriots newly dead + And ye that bled in bygone years, + What banners rise before your eyes? + What is the tune that greets your ears? + + The young Republic's banners smile + For many a mile where troops convene. + O'Connell Street is loudly sweet + With strains of Wearing of the Green. + + The soil of Ireland throbs and glows + With life that knows the hour is here + To strike again like Irishmen + For that which Irishmen hold dear. + + Lord Edward leaves his resting place + And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. + See Emmet leap from troubled sleep + To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! + + There is no rope can strangle song + And not for long death takes his toll. + No prison bars can dim the stars + Nor quicklime eat the living soul. + + Romantic Ireland is not old. + For years untold her youth will shine. + Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, + The blood of martyrs is her wine. + + + + +The Cathedral of Rheims + +(From the French of Emile Verhaeren) + + + + He who walks through the meadows of Champagne + At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, + Sees it draw near + Like some great mountain set upon the plain, + From radiant dawn until the close of day, + Nearer it grows + To him who goes + Across the country. When tall towers lay + Their shadowy pall + Upon his way, + He enters, where + The solid stone is hollowed deep by all + Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. + + Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings + Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, + Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls + What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? + Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, + Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep + And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep + An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. + For God thou has known fear, when from His side + Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, + But still the sky was bountiful and blue + And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. + Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; + And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass + The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; + Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass + Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; + Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white + Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, + The brows of saints with venerable names, + And in the night erect a fiery wall. + A great but silent fervour burns in all + Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, + And know that down below, beside the Rhine -- + Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line -- + With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come. + + Suddenly, each knows fear; + Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, + The hostile banners blaze against the sky + And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. + Now war has come, and peace is at an end. + On Paris town the German troops descend. + They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. + And now, as to so many weary men, + The glorious temple gives them welcome, when + It meets them at the bottom of the plain. + + At once, they set their cannon in its way. + There is no gable now, nor wall + That does not suffer, night and day, + As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. + The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; + The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir + Are circled, hour by hour, + With thundering bands of fire + And Death is scattered broadcast among men. + + And then + That which was splendid with baptismal grace; + The stately arches soaring into space, + The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, + The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, + The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, + The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, + All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord + Were struck and broken by the wanton sword + Of sacrilegious lust. + + O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! + Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! + The crawling flames, like adders glistening + Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. + Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, + The soul that always loved the just and fair. + Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, + The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, + The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare + Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; + The horror everywhere did range and swell, + The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, + Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. + + Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, + The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; + The German army, fighting for its life, + Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; + And, as they near this place + The imperial eagles see + Before them in their flight, + Here, in the solemn night, + The old cathedral, to the years to be + Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace. + + + + +Kings + +(For the Rev. James B. Dollard) + + + + The Kings of the earth are men of might, + And cities are burned for their delight, + And the skies rain death in the silent night, + And the hills belch death all day! + + But the King of Heaven, Who made them all, + Is fair and gentle, and very small; + He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall -- + Let them think of Him to-day! + + + + +The White Ships and the Red + +(For Alden March) + + + + With drooping sail and pennant + That never a wind may reach, + They float in sunless waters + Beside a sunless beach. + Their mighty masts and funnels + Are white as driven snow, + And with a pallid radiance + Their ghostly bulwarks glow. + + Here is a Spanish galleon + That once with gold was gay, + Here is a Roman trireme + Whose hues outshone the day. + But Tyrian dyes have faded, + And prows that once were bright + With rainbow stains wear only + Death's livid, dreadful white. + + White as the ice that clove her + That unforgotten day, + Among her pallid sisters + The grim Titanic lay. + And through the leagues above her + She looked aghast, and said: + "What is this living ship that comes + Where every ship is dead?" + + The ghostly vessels trembled + From ruined stern to prow; + What was this thing of terror + That broke their vigil now? + Down through the startled ocean + A mighty vessel came, + Not white, as all dead ships must be, + But red, like living flame! + + The pale green waves about her + Were swiftly, strangely dyed, + By the great scarlet stream that flowed + From out her wounded side. + And all her decks were scarlet + And all her shattered crew. + She sank among the white ghost ships + And stained them through and through. + + The grim Titanic greeted her + "And who art thou?" she said; + "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet + Arrayed in living red? + We are the ships of sorrow + Who spend the weary night, + Until the dawn of Judgment Day, + Obscure and still and white." + + "Nay," said the scarlet visitor, + "Though I sink through the sea, + A ruined thing that was a ship, + I sink not as did ye. + For ye met with your destiny + By storm or rock or fight, + So through the lagging centuries + Ye wear your robes of white. + + "But never crashing iceberg + Nor honest shot of foe, + Nor hidden reef has sent me + The way that I must go. + My wound that stains the waters, + My blood that is like flame, + Bear witness to a loathly deed, + A deed without a name. + + "I went not forth to battle, + I carried friendly men, + The children played about my decks, + The women sang -- and then -- + And then -- the sun blushed scarlet + And Heaven hid its face, + The world that God created + Became a shameful place! + + "My wrong cries out for vengeance, + The blow that sent me here + Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream + Has reached Jehovah's ear. + Not all the seven oceans + Shall wash away that stain; + Upon a brow that wears a crown + I am the brand of Cain." + + When God's great voice assembles + The fleet on Judgment Day, + The ghosts of ruined ships will rise + In sea and strait and bay. + Though they have lain for ages + Beneath the changeless flood, + They shall be white as silver, + But one -- shall be like blood. + + +***** + + + +The following biographical information is from the Occasional Notes to +'A Treasury of War Poetry', 1919, edited by George Herbert Clarke. + +Kilmer, Joyce. He was born in New Brunswick, N.J., December 6, 1886. He +had first joined the Officers' Reserve Corps, but soon resigned. Within +seventeen days after the entrance of the United States into the war +he left his journalistic career to enlist as a Private in the Seventh +Regiment, National Guard, New York. Shortly before the Seventh left New +York for Spartanburg, S.C., he was transferred at his own request to the +165th U.S. Infantry, formerly the 69th National Guard Regiment of New +York. He accompanied the regiment as a Private to Camp Mills, Long +Island. He was transferred from Company H to Headquarters Company, and +became Senior Regimental Statistician. The regiment sailed for France in +October, 1917, and there he was placed in the Adjutant's Office and +made Sergeant. Thereafter he was attached to the Regimental Intelligence +Staff as an observer, and showed great fidelity and courage in the tasks +to which he was assigned. He was killed in action on July 30, 1918, +while trying to locate hostile machine-guns in the Wood of the Burned +Bridge, on the Ourcq. His war writings may be found in 'Main Street, and +other Poems', and 'Joyce Kilmer, Poems, Essays and Letters'. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Main Street and Other Poems, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 264.txt or 264.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/264/ + +Produced by A. Light, and Linda Bowser + +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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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +Main Street and Other Poems +by Joyce Kilmer + +[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American (New Jersey & New York) Poet -- 1886-1918.] + + + + +[Note on text: There were no significant italics in this text. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. This etext was transcribed +from a 1917 (original) edition.] + + + + + + +To Mrs. Edmund Leamy + + + + + + +[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.] + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Main Street +Roofs +The Snowman in the Yard +A Blue Valentine +Houses +In Memory +Apology +The Proud Poet +Lionel Johnson +Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. +Gates and Doors +The Robe of Christ +The Singing Girl +The Annunciation +Roses +The Visitation +Multiplication +Thanksgiving +The Thorn +The Big Top +Queen Elizabeth Speaks +Mid-ocean in War-time +In Memory of Rupert Brooke +The New School +Easter Week +The Cathedral of Rheims +Kings +The White Ships and the Red + + + + + + +Main Street and Other Poems + + + + + + +Main Street + +(For S. M. L.) + + + +I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, +But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be +When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, +And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. + +Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, +And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; +I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, +Because I think it is humaner than any other street. + +A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, +And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: +It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, +But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends. + +There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, +And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. +And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy +That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy. + +The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train +They make the weary city street reverberate with pain: +But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart +Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. + +God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, +That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. +Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, +But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown. + + + + +Roofs + +(For Amelia Josephine Burr) + + + +The road is wide and the stars are out + and the breath of the night is sweet, +And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet. +But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, +And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place. + +I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam +All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home: +The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day +Will wander only until he finds another place to stay. + +A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead; +Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed. +He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high, +But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky. + +If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong, +For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along. +And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows, +Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes. + +They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, +And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears. +It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, +But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are. + + + + +The Snowman in the Yard + +(For Thomas Augustine Daly) + + + +The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, + And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; +In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, + And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees. + +Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, + And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; +But when Winter comes, I have something there + that the Judge and the Hales have not, + And it's better worth having than all their wealth -- + it's a snowman in the yard. + +The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; + The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; +The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, + And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow. + +But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, + A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: +And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid + For the tiny house with the trampled yard, + the yard where the snowman stands. + +They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears + To toil and suffer their life-time through, + because of the sin they sinned, +The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, + To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce + their flesh with the icy wind. + +But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, + Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: +And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, + For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard. + + + + +A Blue Valentine + +(For Aline) + + + +Monsignore, + Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, +Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, +Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, +I respectfully salute you, +I genuflect +And I kiss your episcopal ring. + +It is not, Monsignore, +The fragrant memory of your holy life, +Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, +Which causes me now to address you. +But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, +It seems appropriate to me to state +According to a venerable and agreeable custom, +That I love a beautiful lady. +Her eyes, Monsignore, +Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections +On everything that she looks at, +Such as a wall +Or the moon +Or my heart. +It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, +Yet not quite like it, +For the blueness is not transparent, +Only translucent. +Her soul's light shines through, +But her soul cannot be seen. +It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise +And noble. +She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, +Made in the manner of the Japanese. +It is very blue -- +I think that her eyes have made it more blue, +Sweetly staining it +As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. +Loving her, Monsignore, +I love all her attributes; +But I believe +That even if I did not love her +I would love the blueness of her eyes, +And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. + +Monsignore, +I have never before troubled you with a request. +The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas + are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, +Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, +And your brother bishop, my patron, +The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. +But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, +Do me this favour: +When you this morning make your way +To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses + because of her who sits upon it, +When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, +I beg you, say to her: +"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, +Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you +For wearing a blue gown." + + + + +Houses + +(For Aline) + + + +When you shall die and to the sky + Serenely, delicately go, +Saint Peter, when he sees you there, + Will clash his keys and say: +"Now talk to her, Sir Christopher! + And hurry, Michelangelo! +She wants to play at building, + And you've got to help her play!" + +Every architect will help erect + A palace on a lawn of cloud, +With rainbow beams and a sunset roof, + And a level star-tiled floor; +And at your will you may use the skill + Of this gay angelic crowd, +When a house is made you will throw it down, + And they'll build you twenty more. + +For Christopher Wren and these other men + Who used to build on earth +Will love to go to work again + If they may work for you. +"This porch," you'll say, "should go this way!" + And they'll work for all they're worth, +And they'll come to your palace every morning, + And ask you what to do. + +And when night comes down on Heaven-town + (If there should be night up there) +You will choose the house you like the best + Of all that you can see: +And its walls will glow as you drowsily go + To the bed up the golden stair, +And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep + A room in your house for me. + + + + +In Memory + + + + I + +Serene and beautiful and very wise, + Most erudite in curious Grecian lore, + You lay and read your learned books, and bore +A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs. +The song within your heart could never rise + Until love bade it spread its wings and soar. + Nor could you look on Beauty's face before +A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes. + +Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; + Love is a poignant and accustomed pain. +It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder; + It is a linnet's fluting after rain. +Love's voice is through your song; above and under + And in each note to echo and remain. + + + II + +Because Mankind is glad and brave and young, + Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow, + All joys and passions that Mankind may know +By you were nobly felt and nobly sung. +Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung + By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so, + Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe, +A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung. + +So did the ghosts of toiling children hover + About the piteous portals of your mind; +Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover + The angry scar to which the world was blind: +And it was grief that made Mankind your lover, + And it was grief that made you love Mankind. + + + III + +Before Christ left the Citadel of Light, + To tread the dreadful way of human birth, + His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth +And those who saw it wept with joy and fright. +"Thou art Apollo, than the sun more bright!" + They cried. "Our music is of little worth, + But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth +Thou god of song, thou lord of lyric might!" + +O singing pilgrim! who could love and follow + Your lover Christ, through even love's despair, +You knew within the cypress-darkened hollow + The feet that on the mountain are so fair. +For it was Christ that was your own Apollo, + And thorns were in the laurel on your hair. + + + + +Apology + +(For Eleanor Rogers Cox) + + + +For blows on the fort of evil + That never shows a breach, +For terrible life-long races + To a goal no foot can reach, +For reckless leaps into darkness + With hands outstretched to a star, +There is jubilation in Heaven + Where the great dead poets are. + +There is joy over disappointment + And delight in hopes that were vain. +Each poet is glad there was no cure + To stop his lonely pain. +For nothing keeps a poet + In his high singing mood +Like unappeasable hunger + For unattainable food. + +So fools are glad of the folly + That made them weep and sing, +And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne + And Drummond for his king. +They know that on flinty sorrow + And failure and desire +The steel of their souls was hammered + To bring forth the lyric fire. + +Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, + McDonough and Hunt and Pearse +See now why their hatred of tyrants + Was so insistently fierce. +Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp + To cheat a poet's eye? +Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause + In which to sing and to die! + +So not for the Rainbow taken + And the magical White Bird snared +The poets sing grateful carols + In the place to which they have fared; +But for their lifetime's passion, + The quest that was fruitless and long, +They chorus their loud thanksgiving + To the thorn-crowned Master of Song. + + + + +The Proud Poet + +(For Shaemas O Sheel) + + + +One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, + His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. +"Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said, + "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!" +"You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell + For the idea you express I will not listen to: +I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well, + Without having to pay attention to orators like you. + +"When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work + You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land. +There was Byron who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk, + And David, the Singing King of the Jews, + who was born with a sword in his hand. +It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died, + And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong; +And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride, + Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song. + +"And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart + As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry. +It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart, + It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be. +It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing + That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth. +For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king, + And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth. + +"There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind, + Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night; +For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind, + And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight. +And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long, + He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all, +Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, + And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall. + +"And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score + Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain. +And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for, + Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain. +It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun + And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: +But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, + Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again." + + + + +Lionel Johnson + +(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.) + + + +There was a murkier tinge in London's air + As if the honest fog blushed black for shame. + Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim, +And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire. +The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere, + But in their midst a radiant lily came + Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame, +Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair. + +And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King", + Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land? +Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing + To take in his thine emulative hand? +Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring + Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand? + + + + +Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J. + + + +Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously, + And match and blend thy words with curious art? + For Song, one saith, is but a human heart +Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. +Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee! + Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart + From all who traffic in Apollo's mart, +On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be! + +Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God, + Singing His praise when other songs are done. +But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod, + Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won? +O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod! + O happy moth, that flew into the Sun! + + + + +Gates and Doors + +(For Richardson Little Wright) + + + +There was a gentle hostler + (And blessed be his name!) +He opened up the stable + The night Our Lady came. +Our Lady and Saint Joseph, + He gave them food and bed, +And Jesus Christ has given him + A glory round his head. + + So let the gate swing open + However poor the yard, + Lest weary people visit you + And find their passage barred; + Unlatch the door at midnight + And let your lantern's glow + Shine out to guide the traveler's feet + To you across the snow. + +There was a courteous hostler + (He is in Heaven to-night) +He held Our Lady's bridle + And helped her to alight; +He spread clean straw before her + Whereon she might lie down, +And Jesus Christ has given him + An everlasting crown. + + Unlock the door this evening + And let your gate swing wide, + Let all who ask for shelter + Come speedily inside. + What if your yard be narrow? + What if your house be small? + There is a Guest is coming + Will glorify it all. + +There was a joyous hostler + Who knelt on Christmas morn +Beside the radiant manger + Wherein his Lord was born. +His heart was full of laughter, + His soul was full of bliss +When Jesus, on His Mother's lap, + Gave him His hand to kiss. + + Unbar your heart this evening + And keep no stranger out, + Take from your soul's great portal + The barrier of doubt. + To humble folk and weary + Give hearty welcoming, + Your breast shall be to-morrow + The cradle of a King. + + + + +The Robe of Christ + +(For Cecil Chesterton) + + + +At the foot of the Cross on Calvary + Three soldiers sat and diced, +And one of them was the Devil + And he won the Robe of Christ. + +When the Devil comes in his proper form + To the chamber where I dwell, +I know him and make the Sign of the Cross + Which drives him back to Hell. + +And when he comes like a friendly man + And puts his hand in mine, +The fervour in his voice is not + From love or joy or wine. + +And when he comes like a woman, + With lovely, smiling eyes, +Black dreams float over his golden head + Like a swarm of carrion flies. + +Now many a million tortured souls + In his red halls there be: +Why does he spend his subtle craft + In hunting after me? + +Kings, queens and crested warriors + Whose memory rings through time, +These are his prey, and what to him + Is this poor man of rhyme, + +That he, with such laborious skill, + Should change from role to role, +Should daily act so many a part + To get my little soul? + +Oh, he can be the forest, + And he can be the sun, +Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest + When the weary day is done. + +I saw him through a thousand veils, + And has not this sufficed? +Now, must I look on the Devil robed + In the radiant Robe of Christ? + +He comes, and his face is sad and mild, + With thorns his head is crowned; +There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, + And in each hand a wound. + +How can I tell, who am a fool, + If this be Christ or no? +Those bleeding hands outstretched to me! + Those eyes that love me so! + +I see the Robe -- I look -- I hope -- + I fear -- but there is one +Who will direct my troubled mind; + Christ's Mother knows her Son. + +O Mother of Good Counsel, lend + Intelligence to me! +Encompass me with wisdom, + Thou Tower of Ivory! + +"This is the Man of Lies," she says, + "Disguised with fearful art: +He has the wounded hands and feet, + But not the wounded heart." + +Beside the Cross on Calvary + She watched them as they diced. +She saw the Devil join the game + And win the Robe of Christ. + + + + +The Singing Girl + +(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.) + + + +There was a little maiden + In blue and silver drest, +She sang to God in Heaven + And God within her breast. + +It flooded me with pleasure, + It pierced me like a sword, +When this young maiden sang: "My soul + Doth magnify the Lord." + +The stars sing all together + And hear the angels sing, +But they said they had never heard + So beautiful a thing. + +Saint Mary and Saint Joseph, + And Saint Elizabeth, +Pray for us poets now + And at the hour of death. + + + + +The Annunciation + +(For Helen Parry Eden) + + + +"Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith. + Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed; + She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named, +Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death. +Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth; + Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed, + Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed, +And human lips have trembled in God's breath. + +O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover + With thy white self, whereon no stain can be, +Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover, + Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee. +About thy head celestial legions hover, + Chanting the praise of thy humility. + + + + +Roses + +(For Katherine Bregy) + + + +I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, +For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. +I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be, +From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree. + +But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet +I found He had His roses a million times more sweet. +There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand, +And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land. + +Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told, +That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold. +Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red, +A little wreath of roses around His radiant head. + +A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face, +And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place. +He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I, +And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die. + + + + +The Visitation + +(For Louise Imogen Guiney) + + + +There is a wall of flesh before the eyes + Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. + It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring +Before mankind the Glory of the skies. +Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise + And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing, + With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming. +She knows her hidden God, and prophesies. + +Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry + Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath. +Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry, + Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth. +And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry + Within our hearts, that we may conquer death. + + + + +Multiplication + +(For S. M. E.) + + + +I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well; +I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell; +O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light! +O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight! + +I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train, +And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain. +O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be +In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee? + +But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land +I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand. +Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night, +And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might. + +Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet, +Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street: +The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go, +O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so? + + + + +Thanksgiving + +(For John Bunker) + + + +The roar of the world is in my ears. + Thank God for the roar of the world! +Thank God for the mighty tide of fears + Against me always hurled! + +Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, + And the sting of His chastening rod! +Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, + And Oh, thank God for God! + + + + +The Thorn + +(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.) + + + +The garden of God is a radiant place, +And every flower has a holy face: +Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, +But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God. + +David is the song upon God's lips, +And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: +And Gabriel's the breath of His command, +But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand. + +The Ivory Tower is fair to see, +And may her walls encompass me! +But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, +Saint Michael, show me how to fight! + + + + +The Big Top + + + +The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart + And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. +I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art, + And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away. + +I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, + Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng. +It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air + And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song. + +Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill + Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face +To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will + As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race. + +Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife, + And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, +By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life; + And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing. + +For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same. + They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, +And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim; + For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth. + +But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, + Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live, +Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress -- + What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give? + +Well -- here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand, + One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin, +And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand, + And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein. + +You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look; + You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear; +Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. + O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here! + + + + +Queen Elizabeth Speaks + + + +My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, +My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. +So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God, +Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod. + + + + +Mid-ocean in War-time + +(For My Mother) + + + +The fragile splendour of the level sea, + The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, + Make of this vessel an enchanted place +Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. +Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be + Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, + And the old stars, in their unending race, +Shall heed and envy young humanity. + +And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, + These waters blush a strange and awful red. +Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey + Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. +And these stars smile their immemorial way + On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead! + + + + +In Memory of Rupert Brooke + + + +In alien earth, across a troubled sea, + His body lies that was so fair and young. + His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; +His arm is still, that struck to make men free. +But let no cloud of lamentation be + Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. + We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, +We keep the vision of his chivalry. + +So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, + Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. +To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings + With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; +And David rests beneath Eternal wings, + Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword. + + + + +The New School + +(For My Mother) + + + +The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet + Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, +And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street + Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away. + +The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls + Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, +And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls + A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made. + +For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, + And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, +And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, + And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord. + +They have taken their youth and mirth away + from the study and playing-ground + To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; +Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, + And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die. + +And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, + A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. +And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, + A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said. + +And there will be ghosts in the old school, + brave ghosts with laughing eyes, + On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; +They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, + A flame that they took with strong young hands + from the altar-fires of God. + + + + +Easter Week + +(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) + + + ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave.") + William Butler Yeats. + + + +"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, + It's with O'Leary in the grave." +Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn + A hue so radiantly brave? + +There was a rain of blood that day, + Red rain in gay blue April weather. +It blessed the earth till it gave birth + To valour thick as blooms of heather. + +Romantic Ireland never dies! + O'Leary lies in fertile ground, +And songs and spears throughout the years + Rise up where patriot graves are found. + +Immortal patriots newly dead + And ye that bled in bygone years, +What banners rise before your eyes? + What is the tune that greets your ears? + +The young Republic's banners smile + For many a mile where troops convene. +O'Connell Street is loudly sweet + With strains of Wearing of the Green. + +The soil of Ireland throbs and glows + With life that knows the hour is here +To strike again like Irishmen + For that which Irishmen hold dear. + +Lord Edward leaves his resting place + And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. +See Emmet leap from troubled sleep + To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! + +There is no rope can strangle song + And not for long death takes his toll. +No prison bars can dim the stars + Nor quicklime eat the living soul. + +Romantic Ireland is not old. + For years untold her youth will shine. +Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, + The blood of martyrs is her wine. + + + + +The Cathedral of Rheims + +(From the French of Emile Verhaeren) + + + +He who walks through the meadows of Champagne + At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, + Sees it draw near +Like some great mountain set upon the plain, +From radiant dawn until the close of day, + Nearer it grows + To him who goes +Across the country. When tall towers lay + Their shadowy pall + Upon his way, + He enters, where +The solid stone is hollowed deep by all +Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. + +Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings +Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, +Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls +What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? +Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, +Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep +And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep +An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. +For God thou has known fear, when from His side +Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, +But still the sky was bountiful and blue +And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. +Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; +And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass +The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; +Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass +Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; +Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white +Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, +The brows of saints with venerable names, +And in the night erect a fiery wall. +A great but silent fervour burns in all +Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, +And know that down below, beside the Rhine -- +Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line -- +With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come. + +Suddenly, each knows fear; +Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, +The hostile banners blaze against the sky +And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. +Now war has come, and peace is at an end. +On Paris town the German troops descend. +They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. +And now, as to so many weary men, +The glorious temple gives them welcome, when +It meets them at the bottom of the plain. + +At once, they set their cannon in its way. + There is no gable now, nor wall +That does not suffer, night and day, + As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. +The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; + The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir +Are circled, hour by hour, + With thundering bands of fire +And Death is scattered broadcast among men. + +And then +That which was splendid with baptismal grace; +The stately arches soaring into space, +The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, +The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, +The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, +The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, +All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord +Were struck and broken by the wanton sword +Of sacrilegious lust. + +O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! +Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! +The crawling flames, like adders glistening +Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. +Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, +The soul that always loved the just and fair. +Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, +The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, +The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare +Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; +The horror everywhere did range and swell, +The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, +Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. + +Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, +The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; +The German army, fighting for its life, +Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; + And, as they near this place + The imperial eagles see + Before them in their flight, +Here, in the solemn night, +The old cathedral, to the years to be + Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace. + + + + +Kings + +(For the Rev. James B. Dollard) + + + +The Kings of the earth are men of might, +And cities are burned for their delight, +And the skies rain death in the silent night, + And the hills belch death all day! + +But the King of Heaven, Who made them all, +Is fair and gentle, and very small; +He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall -- + Let them think of Him to-day! + + + + +The White Ships and the Red + +(For Alden March) + + + +With drooping sail and pennant + That never a wind may reach, +They float in sunless waters + Beside a sunless beach. +Their mighty masts and funnels + Are white as driven snow, +And with a pallid radiance + Their ghostly bulwarks glow. + +Here is a Spanish galleon + That once with gold was gay, +Here is a Roman trireme + Whose hues outshone the day. +But Tyrian dyes have faded, + And prows that once were bright +With rainbow stains wear only + Death's livid, dreadful white. + +White as the ice that clove her + That unforgotten day, +Among her pallid sisters + The grim Titanic lay. +And through the leagues above her + She looked aghast, and said: +"What is this living ship that comes + Where every ship is dead?" + +The ghostly vessels trembled + From ruined stern to prow; +What was this thing of terror + That broke their vigil now? +Down through the startled ocean + A mighty vessel came, +Not white, as all dead ships must be, + But red, like living flame! + +The pale green waves about her + Were swiftly, strangely dyed, +By the great scarlet stream that flowed + From out her wounded side. +And all her decks were scarlet + And all her shattered crew. +She sank among the white ghost ships + And stained them through and through. + +The grim Titanic greeted her + "And who art thou?" she said; +"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet + Arrayed in living red? +We are the ships of sorrow + Who spend the weary night, +Until the dawn of Judgment Day, + Obscure and still and white." + +"Nay," said the scarlet visitor, + "Though I sink through the sea, +A ruined thing that was a ship, + I sink not as did ye. +For ye met with your destiny + By storm or rock or fight, +So through the lagging centuries + Ye wear your robes of white. + +"But never crashing iceberg + Nor honest shot of foe, +Nor hidden reef has sent me + The way that I must go. +My wound that stains the waters, + My blood that is like flame, +Bear witness to a loathly deed, + A deed without a name. + +"I went not forth to battle, + I carried friendly men, +The children played about my decks, + The women sang -- and then -- +And then -- the sun blushed scarlet + And Heaven hid its face, +The world that God created + Became a shameful place! + +"My wrong cries out for vengeance, + The blow that sent me here +Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream + Has reached Jehovah's ear. +Not all the seven oceans + Shall wash away that stain; +Upon a brow that wears a crown + I am the brand of Cain." + +When God's great voice assembles + The fleet on Judgment Day, +The ghosts of ruined ships will rise + In sea and strait and bay. +Though they have lain for ages + Beneath the changeless flood, +They shall be white as silver, + But one -- shall be like blood. + + + + +[End of Main Street and Other Poems.] + + + + +The following biographical information is from the Occasional Notes +to `A Treasury of War Poetry', 1919, edited by George Herbert Clarke. + + + +Kilmer, Joyce. He was born in New Brunswick, N.J., December 6, 1886. +He had first joined the Officers' Reserve Corps, but soon resigned. +Within seventeen days after the entrance of the United States into the war +he left his journalistic career to enlist as a Private +in the Seventh Regiment, National Guard, New York. +Shortly before the Seventh left New York for Spartanburg, S.C., +he was transferred at his own request to the 165th U.S. Infantry, +formerly the 69th National Guard Regiment of New York. +He accompanied the regiment as a Private to Camp Mills, Long Island. +He was transferred from Company H to Headquarters Company, +and became Senior Regimental Statistician. The regiment sailed for France +in October, 1917, and there he was placed in the Adjutant's Office +and made Sergeant. Thereafter he was attached to the Regimental +Intelligence Staff as an observer, and showed great fidelity and courage +in the tasks to which he was assigned. He was killed in action +on July 30, 1918, while trying to locate hostile machine-guns +in the Wood of the Burned Bridge, on the Ourcq. His war writings +may be found in `Main Street, and other Poems', and `Joyce Kilmer, +Poems, Essays and Letters'. + + + + + + +End of this etext of Main Street and Other Poems + + + + diff --git a/old/jkmst10.zip b/old/jkmst10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a0e812 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/jkmst10.zip |