Joyce Kilmer
Joyce Kilmer
Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American writer and poet mainly remembered for a short poem titled "Trees" (1913), which was published in the collection Trees and Other Poems in 1914. Though a prolific poet whose works celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his Catholic faith, Kilmer was also a journalist, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. At the time of his deployment to Eur
"O Carpenter of Nazareth, Whose mother was a village maid, Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath In scorn on any humble trade? Have pity on our foolishness And give us eyes, that we may see Beneath the shopmans clumsy dress The splendor of humanity!"
"They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, And now and then theres a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears. Its 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."
"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."
"At present, I am a poet trying to be a soldier. To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing nowadays, except in so far as writing is the expression of something beautiful … The only sort of book I care to write about the war is the sort people will read after the war is over — a century after it is over."
"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."
"In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet, There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade nor pick, Yet covered with earth ten meteres thick. There lie many fighting men. Dead in their youthful prime Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime."
"I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earths sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree."
"Yes, God forgives and men forget, And youre forgiven and forgotten. You might be gaily sinning yet And quick and fresh instead of rotten. And when you think of love and fame And all that might have come to pass, Then dont you feel a little shame? And dont you think you were an ass?"
"The song within your heart could never rise Until love bade it spread its wings and soar."
"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 linnets fluting after rain."
"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."
"He is the lord of goodly things That make the poor mans table gay, Yet of his worth no minstrel sings And on his tomb there is no bay."
