Title: Trees and Other Poems
by Joyce Kilmer
ISBN 978-3-7429-0229-0
All rights reserved
It is not permitted to reproduce or publish this work in whole or in part without prior written permission.
TREES AND OTHER POEMS
by Joyce Kilmer
[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American
(New Jersey & New York) Poet — 1886-1918.]
Edition of 1914.
[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.]
TREES AND OTHER POEMS
"Mine is no horse with wings, to gain
The region of the Spheral chime;
He does but drag a rumbling wain,
Cheered by the coupled bells of rhyme."
Coventry Patmore
To My Mother
Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold
(I know it does) a record of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over these childish scrawls the years have rolled,
They might not know the world's unfriendly gaze;
But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.
More dear to-day than in that vanished time
Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chime,
So unto you does this, my work belong.
Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme:
Your heart will change it to authentic song.
CONTENTS
To My Mother
TREES AND OTHER POEMS
The Twelve-Forty-Five
Pennies
Trees
Stars
Old Poets
Delicatessen
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy
Wealth
Martin
The Apartment House
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
St. Laurence
To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
Memorial Day
The Rosary
Vision
To Certain Poets
Love's Lantern
St. Alexis
Folly
Madness
Poets
Citizen of the World
To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring
The Fourth Shepherd
Easter
Mount Houvenkopf
The House with Nobody in It
Dave Lilly
Alarm Clocks
Waverley
TREES AND OTHER POEMS
The Twelve-Forty-Five
(For Edward J. Wheeler)
Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head,
The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of night.
And now the grave incurious stars
Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
Against the kind and awful reign
Of darkness, this our angry train,
A noisy little rebel, pouts
Its brief defiance, flames and shouts —
And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For darkness holds its ancient place,
Serene and absolute, the king
Unchanged, of every living thing.
The houses lie obscure and still
In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
Our lamps intensify the dark
Of slumbering Passaic Park.
And quiet holds the weary feet
That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
What though we clang and clank and roar
Through all Passaic's streets? No door
Will open, not an eye will see
Who this loud vagabond may be.
Upon my crimson cushioned seat,
In manufactured light and heat,
I feel unnatural and mean.
Outside the towns are cool and clean;
Curtained awhile from sound and sight
They take God's gracious gift of night.
The stars are watchful over them.
On Clifton as on Bethlehem
The angels, leaning down the sky,
Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I —
I ride, I blasphemously ride
Through all the silent countryside.
The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare,
Pollute the still nocturnal air.
The cottages of Lake View sigh
And sleeping, frown as we pass by.
Why, even strident Paterson
Rests quietly as any nun.
Her foolish warring children keep
