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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcde0d4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65652 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65652) diff --git a/old/65652-0.txt b/old/65652-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 05a78be..0000000 --- a/old/65652-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6006 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Joyce Kilmer, Volume I (of 2), by Joyce -Kilmer - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Joyce Kilmer, Volume I (of 2) - Poems, Essays and Letters in Two Volumes - -Author: Joyce Kilmer - -Editor: Robert Cortes Holliday - -Release Date: June 20, 2021 [eBook #65652] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE KILMER, VOLUME I (OF 2) *** - - - - -Transcriber’s Note: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. - - - - - JOYCE KILMER - - POEMS, ESSAYS - AND LETTERS - IN TWO VOLUMES - - VOLUME ONE: MEMOIR AND POEMS - - -[Illustration: - - © _Underwood and Underwood_ - -JOYCE KILMER, AGE 30 - -LAST CIVILIAN PORTRAIT] - - - - - JOYCE KILMER - - EDITED WITH A MEMOIR - BY ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY - - VOLUME ONE - MEMOIR AND POEMS - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - - - - Copyright, 1914, 1917, 1918 - By George H. Doran Company - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - TO THE MEMORY OF - JOYCE KILMER - - - - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - - -Many persons have contributed exceedingly valuable service to the -preparation of these volumes. Credit has been gratefully acknowledged, -wherever feasible, in the course of the text. To make anything like -a full record, however, of the names of that remarkable society, -the ardent and devoted friends of Joyce Kilmer, would require a -chapter. Though particular reference should be made in this place to -the invaluable assistance of: Kilmer’s life-long friend and lawyer, -Louis Bevier, Jr.; his especial friend, Thomas Walsh; and his office -associate, John Bunker. - -Permission has been most cordially granted by the editors of the -following magazines for the reprinting of the poems from France: -_Scribner’s Magazine_, _Good Housekeeping_, _The Saturday Evening -Post_, _America_, and _The Bookman_. Essays and miscellaneous pieces -have been gathered, with the warm approval of the editors of these -publications, from these sources: _The Bookman_, _The New York Times -Sunday Magazine_, _The Bellman_, _The Catholic World_, _Poetry: A -Magazine of Verse, he Smart Set_, _Munsey’s Magazine_ and _Puck_--a -curiously assorted company, highly expressive of the catholicity of the -mind these pages reflect. - -The article on Hilaire Belloc, originally one of Kilmer’s lectures, was -first printed in the American edition of Belloc’s “Verses.” The early -poems have been chosen from Kilmer’s first book, “A Summer of Love,” -now out of print, rights to which are held by Mrs. Aline Kilmer. Poems -not otherwise credited have been reprinted from the volumes already -published by George H. Doran Company. - - R. C. H. - -New York, 1918. - - - - -CONTENTS VOLUME ONE - - - PAGE - MEMOIR 17 - - - POEMS FROM FRANCE - - ROUGE BOUQUET 105 - - THE PEACEMAKER 108 - - PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE 109 - - WHEN THE SIXTY-NINTH COMES BACK 110 - - MIRAGE DU CANTONMENT 113 - - - POEMS AT HOME - - WARTIME CHRISTMAS 117 - - MAIN STREET 118 - - ROOFS 120 - - THE SNOWMAN IN THE YARD 122 - - A BLUE VALENTINE 124 - - HOUSES 127 - - IN MEMORY 128 - - APOLOGY 131 - - THE PROUD POET 133 - - LIONEL JOHNSON 137 - - FATHER GERARD HOPKINS, S.J. 138 - - GATES AND DOORS 139 - - THE ROBE OF CHRIST 142 - - THE SINGING GIRL 145 - - THE ANNUNCIATION 146 - - ROSES 147 - - THE VISITATION 149 - - MULTIPLICATION 150 - - THANKSGIVING 152 - - THE THORN 153 - - THE BIG TOP 154 - - MID-OCEAN IN WAR-TIME 157 - - QUEEN ELIZABETH SPEAKS 158 - - IN MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE 159 - - THE NEW SCHOOL 160 - - EASTER WEEK 163 - - THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIMS 165 - - KINGS 169 - - THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED 170 - - THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE 174 - - PENNIES 178 - - TREES 180 - - STARS 181 - - OLD POETS 183 - - DELICATESSEN 185 - - SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER’S BOY 190 - - WEALTH 192 - - MARTIN 193 - - THE APARTMENT HOUSE 194 - - AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR 196 - - ST. LAURENCE 197 - - TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED HIMSELF 198 - - MEMORIAL DAY 200 - - THE ROSARY 201 - - VISION 202 - - TO CERTAIN POETS 203 - - LOVE’S LANTERN 205 - - ST. ALEXIS 206 - - FOLLY 208 - - MADNESS 210 - - POETS 211 - - CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 212 - - TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE WHO DIED IN THE SPRING 213 - - THE FOURTH SHEPHERD 215 - - EASTER 218 - - MOUNT HOUVENKOPF 219 - - THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT 220 - - DAVE LILLY 223 - - ALARM CLOCKS 226 - - WAVERLEY 227 - - - EARLY POEMS - - IN A BOOK-SHOP 231 - - SLENDER YOUR HANDS 232 - - SLEEP SONG 233 - - WHITE BIRD OF LOVE 234 - - TRANSFIGURATION 236 - - BALLADE OF MY LADY’S BEAUTY 237 - - FOR A BIRTHDAY 239 - - WAYFARERS 242 - - PRINCESS BALLADE 244 - - LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY 246 - - A DEAD POET 248 - - THE MAD FIDDLER 249 - - THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE 251 - - SAID THE ROSE 252 - - METAMORPHOSIS 254 - - FOR A CHILD 255 - - THE CLOUDED SUN (TO A. S.) 256 - - THE POET’S EPITAPH 259 - - BEAUTY’S HAIR 260 - - THE WAY OF LOVE 262 - - CHEVELY CROSSING 267 - - THE OTHER LOVER 270 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - - JOYCE KILMER, AGE 30 _Frontispiece_ - - PAGE - FAC-SIMILE OF AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT OF “THE PEACEMAKER” 108 - - JOYCE KILMER, AGE 21 240 - - - - -MEMOIR - - -It is the felicity of these pages that they cannot be dull. It is -their merit, peculiar in such a memoir, that they cannot be sad. It -is their novelty that they can be restricted in appeal only by the -varieties of the human species. It is their good fortune that they can -be extraordinarily frank. It is their virtue that they cannot fail to -do unmeasurable good. And it is their luck to abide many days. - -With their subject how could it be otherwise? They make not a wreath, -but a chronicle, and in their assembled facts tell a bright chapter -in the history of our time. If there is one word which more than any -other should be linked with the name of this gallant figure now claimed -(and rightly) by so many elements of the nation, that word certainly -is “American.” A character and a career so racy, typical of all that -everybody likes to believe that at our best we are, can hardly be -matched, I think, outside of stories. - - -I - -Joyce Kilmer was reported in the papers as having said, just before -he sailed for France, that he was “half Irish,” and that was why he -belonged with the boys of the Sixty-ninth. His birth was not exactly -eloquent of this fact. Though, indeed, he was, as will appear, a much -more ardent Irishman than many an Irishman born--that is, in the sense -of keenly savouring those things which are fine in the Irish character, -and with characteristic gusto feeling within himself an affinity with -them. Later, in a letter from France to his wife, he was more explicit -on this point: - - As to the matter of my own blood (you mentioned this in a - previous letter) I did indeed tell a good friend of mine who - edits the book-review page of a Chicago paper that I was “half - Irish.” But I have never been a mathematician. The point I - wished to make was that a large percentage--which I have a - perfect right to call half--of my ancestry was Irish. For proof - of this, you have only to refer to the volumes containing the - histories of my mother’s and my father’s families. Of course I - am American, but one cannot be pure American in blood unless - one is an Indian. And I have the good fortune to be able to - claim, largely because of the wise matrimonial selections of my - progenitors on both sides, Irish blood. And don’t let anyone - publish a statement contrary to this. - -He also, in a letter from France, quoted with much relish the remark -of Father Francis P. Duffy that he was “half German and half human.” -English and Scotch strains made up another half or three quarters. The -English goes straight back to one Thomas Kilburne, church warden at -Wooddilton, near Newmarket, in Cambridgeshire, who came to Connecticut -in 1638. The “e” was lost apparently in Massachusetts, and the word -became, as in his mother’s maiden name, Kilburn. - -Soldier blood, too, flowed in his veins--though it is likely that this -fact for the first time occurred to him, if at all, when his nature -rose white-hot to arms. He was, so to say, a Colonial Dame on both -sides, as members of both his father’s and his mother’s family fought -in the American Revolution; and members of his father’s family in the -French and Indian wars. - -Alfred Joyce Kilmer (as he was christened) was born at New Brunswick, -New Jersey, December 6, 1886, son of Annie Kilburn and Frederick -Kilmer. Though he seems always to have been, in familiar address and -allusion, called Joyce, the Alfred did not disappear from his address -and signature until he began, as more or less of a professional -writer, to publish his work, when it went the way of the Newton in Mr. -Tarkington’s name, and the Enoch in Mr. Bennett’s. Then “Joyce Kilmer” -acquired a fine humorous disdain for what he regarded as the florid -note in literary signatures of three words (or, worse still to his -mind, the A. Joyce kind of thing); and he enjoyed handing down, with -much relish of the final and judicial character of his utterance, the -opinion that the proper sort of a trademark, so to say, for success -in letters was something short, pointed, easy to say and to remember, -such as Rudyard Kipling, Mark Twain, O. Henry, Joseph Conrad, and so on -through illustrations carried, at length, to intentionally infuriating -numbers. - -As a small boy, Kilmer is described by those who knew him then as the -“funniest” small boy they ever saw, by which is meant, apparently, that -he was an odd spectacle. And this, of course, is so altogether in line -with literary tradition that it would have been odd if he had not been -an oddity in the way of a spectacle. He wore queer clothes, it seems, -ordinary stockings with bicycle breeches, and that sort of thing. He -didn’t altogether fit in somehow, couldn’t find himself, was somewhat -of an outsider among the juvenile clans; he was required to fight other -boys a good deal; he evidenced a pronounced inability to comprehend -anything at all of arithmetic; and somewhere between eight and twelve -(so the report goes) he contracted a violent passion for a lady, of -about thirty-five, who was his teacher at school; a passion which -endured for a considerable time, and became a hilarious legend among -the youth about him of jocose humour. - -It is told that at “Prep” school, when this goal seemed rather unlikely -of his attainment, he made up his mind to stand at the head of his -class; and with something like the later Kilmerian exercise of will he -accomplished his purpose. - -Kilmer was graduated from Rutgers College in 1904, and received his -A. B. from Columbia in 1906. His University life seems to have been, -in outward effect, fairly normal. There is no ready evidence that he -“shone” particularly, and none that he failed to “shine.” He was not -deported by the authorities, and he was not unanimously hailed the idol -of his classmates. He became a member of Delta Upsilon fraternity: and -he was, of course, active in college journalism. Then as always he -appears to have been zestful in living well, to have counted sufficient -to the day the excellence thereof, and to have been too warm with -life to be calculating in expenditures. He retained in the years that -followed--and it seems to have been the college memory he retained most -distinctly--a humorous recollection of his consuming his allowance on -an abundance of rich viands during the first few days of each month, -and being reduced to the necessity of living precariously on a meagre -ration of crackers and sandwiches thereafter--until next income day. - -Characteristic of the vehement manner in which he went after life, as -a Sophomore Kilmer became engaged to Miss Aline Murray, of New Jersey, -a step-daughter of Henry Mills Alden, editor of _Harper’s Magazine_. -Upon leaving Columbia he took up the business of making a living in the -way of an elder American intellectual tradition, by teaching school in -a (more or less) rural community. He returned to New Jersey and began -his career as instructor of Latin at Morristown High School. So slight -a lad he was, even several years after this time, that it is difficult -to picture him in the disciplinary adventures of the classic figure -of this calling. His problems at Morristown doubtless were dissimilar -to those of his early, Hoosier, prototype. He married and became a -householder. His son, Kenton, was born. In religion he had been bred -an Episcopalian, and during this period in New Jersey (it is told) he -acted as a lay reader in this church. - -He soon concluded, apparently, that pedagogy was, so to say, no life -for a boy. At the conclusion of a year’s teaching he tore up the roots -he had planted, and, together with the young lady he had married, and -the son born to them, and with a few youthful poems in his pocket, he -advanced upon the metropolis, even in the classic way, on the ancient -quest of conscious talent. - -The rapidity and brilliance of Joyce Kilmer’s success has altogether -obscured his very democratic beginnings. As his initial occupation -in New York, he obtained, by a lucky chance, employment as editor -of a journal for horsemen, though of horses he had no particular -knowledge--to be exact, no such knowledge whatever. Here finding little -to do, and discovering one day in a desk drawer a bulky manuscript, he -decided--as he was editor--to edit it. This, apparently, he did with -youthful energy. The little job he mentioned with some satisfaction -to his employer, a fine portly sportsman with a crimson face and an -irascible temper. The young editor explained that the manuscript -evidently had been written by a man familiar with horses, but one -apparently innocent of the art of literary composition. “Young man,” -bellowed his employer, “I would have you understand I have been through -the best veterinary college in the world, and I have been a veterinary -myself for over forty years.” His wife, he added, was his amanuensis, -and he guessed she knew something about writing. The editorship came to -an abrupt termination. - -Then followed a brief sojourn, at a salary of (I think) eight dollars -a week, as retail salesman in the book store of Charles Scribner’s -Sons, a dignity which the young littérateur wore with humorous dignity -for exactly two weeks. A distinct mental impression of him of this -time presents him as decidedly like an Eton boy in general effect, and -it seems that a large white collar and a small-size high hat should -have gone with him to make the picture quite right. One who met him -then felt at once a gracious, slightly courtly, young presence. He -gave forth an aroma of excellent, gentlemanly manners. He frequently -pronounced, as an indication that he had not heard you clearly, the -word “Pardon?”--with a slight forward inclination of his head, which, -altogether, was adorable. His smile, never far away, when it came was -winning, charming. It broke like spring sunshine, it was so fresh and -warm and clear. And there was noticeable then in his eyes a light, -a quiet glow which marked him as a spirit not to be forgotten. So -tenderly boyish was he in effect that his confreres among the book -clerks accepted with difficulty the story that he was married. When it -was told that he had a son they gasped their incredulity. And when one -day this extraordinary elfin sprite remarked that at the time of his -honeymoon he had had a beard they felt (I remember) that the world was -without power to astonish them further. - -As a retail salesman, however, this exceedingly interesting young -man did not make a high mark. One’s general impression of him “on -the floor” is a picture of a happy student, standing, entranced, -frequently with his back to the door (which theoretically he should -have been watching for incoming customers), day after day engrossed -in perusing a rare edition of “Madame Bovary.” One sensational feat -of business he did as a clerk perform. Misreading, in his newness -to these hieroglyphics, the cypher in which in stores the prices of -books are marked on the fly leaves of the volumes, he sold to a lady a -hundred-and-fifty-dollar book for a dollar and a half. This transaction -being what is termed a “charge sale,” not a “cash sale,” and amid some -excitement the matter being immediately rectified, disaster for the -amateur salesman was averted. - -At Scribner’s a close friendship was, almost at once, formed between -the youthful poet and another then unpublished writer acting at that -time in the same capacity of clerk--a friendship which was never -diminished by the numerous shiftings of Kilmer’s fields of activity, -the multitudinous, diverse and ardent interests which he acquired -in an ever-mounting measure, and the steady addition of numberless -friends of all classes who eagerly yielded him their devotion. It -was rather a friendship which was continually cemented by increasing -and closer bonds. It was a part of Kilmer’s spirit to make his first -friend in his literary life a sharer as far as was possible in each -new success of his own. One among many, innumerable, instances of -this was his contriving, by his influence with the editor (at that -time another intimate, Louis H. Wetmore), to work his friend into a -position somewhat rivaling his own at the period (1912–1913) when he -was the bright and shining star reviewer for the _New York Times Review -of Books_. The regular Tuesday lunching together of these two friends -when their offices were widely separated became, at least in their own -fancy, an American literary institution. The two were united in all -the symbols of affection between men. And at seasons of rejoicing and -adversity the Kilmer house was to his friend as his own. It is to this -one who among all of Joyce Kilmer’s friends owes him the greatest debt -of friendship has come the supreme trust of writing, within the power -of his many and conscious limitations, this Memoir, and editing these -volumes. - -Dropping the very small bird which he held in his hand in the way of -a secure salary, the spectacular bookseller, somewhat to twist the -figure, plunged again into uncharted seas, and became a lexicographer, -as an editorial assistant in the work of preparing a new edition of -the Standard Dictionary. He blithely began his Johnsonian labours by -defining ordinary words assigned to him, at a pay of five cents for -each word defined. This is a very different thing indeed from receiving -a rate of five cents a word for writing. It is a task at which you -can obtain an average of perhaps ten or twelve dollars a week, though -some weeks “stickers” will hold you back. It soon became apparent, -evidently, that it was advisable to put this very capable pieceworker -on a salary; and he was rapidly promoted, with corresponding increases -in remuneration (reaching an amount of something like four times his -initial earnings), to more advanced phases of the work: research into -dates of birth (involving correspondence with living celebrities); -research into the inception of inventions (as, for example, the -introduction of the barrier into horse racing); together with the -defining of words of contemporary origin, in, for instance, the -nomenclature of aviation. In this last mentioned department, it was -his office to call upon authorities, such as the Wright brothers, and -upon presentation of his credentials to receive precise information. He -interviewed famous tobacco importers, and coffee merchants; compiled in -the New York Public Library material about fans; unearthed for use as -an illustration a picture of a strange bird; or was assigned to collect -for this purpose designs of ancient mouldings. - -If lexicography was Kilmer’s venerable occupation, by political faith -he was at the time, this very young, young man, a socialist. He -subscribed for and frequently contributed to the _Call_ newspaper. -And the height of his effervescence was in addressing meetings of the -proletariat. He was, it must be said, a burning “young radical.” He -frequented, to some extent, a club of that name. And with a joyous -consciousness of being in the character of his surroundings he ate -meals at the Rand School of Social Science. He rapidly acquired a -wonderful string of queer acquaintances, in whose idiosyncrasies he -took immense delight. Some, not of the persuasion, fancied that as -an adherent of the socialist party he was merely enamoured of an -intellectual idea. At any rate, whenever in conversation he spoke -of socialism, as he frequently did, his graceful, amiable young -features assumed a very firm and earnest aspect. Exactly the point -of transition, if there was any decided point, I cannot recall, but -from the proletariat he passed to the literati. A “man of letters” -became a great word with him. And he looked rather proudly about as -he said it, as a Scot might speak of the doughty deeds of the Scotch. -He was wont to refer, too, to the “intellectual aristocracy.” His -luncheon engagements were now mostly with this order of humanity, and -his anecdotes featured such figures as Richard Le Gallienne and Bliss -Carman--men whose personalities delighted his heart beyond measure. - -How absurdly juvenile he looked. But you would have noted, as you -observed him, that he had a very fine head, something like that of -Arthur Symons (without the moustache), I thought; or, according to -Mr. Le Gallienne’s sympathetic picture in _The Bookman_: “Though the -resemblance was perhaps only a spiritual expression, his then thin, -austere young face, with those strangely strong and gentle eyes (eyes -that seemed to have an independent, dominating existence), reminded me -of Lionel Johnson, for whom he had already a great admiration, and -whose religion he was afterwards to embrace.” Or, again, he seemed as -if he might be a comely youth out of ancient Greece. I think that what -I mean is that he was so unlike all other young men anyone had ever -seen walking about, so much brighter and purer, or some indescribable -thing, that he did not seem altogether real. A feeling which I think -was shared by many, and which I have never quite been able to make -articulate, Mr. Le Gallienne has most happily expressed with his own -easy charm; that is the “hint of destiny” in this “very concentrated, -intense young presence--masculine intense, not feminine:” - - We have all met young people who give us that--beautiful, - brilliant, lovely natured, so superabundant in all their - qualities (and particularly perhaps in some quality of - emanating light)--as to make them suggest the supernatural, and - touched, too, with the finger of a moonlight that has written - “fated” upon their brows. Probably our feeling is nothing more - mysterious than our realisation that temperaments so vital and - intense must inevitably tempt richer and swifter fates than - those less wild winged. - -Above all, this young gentleman was the portrait of a poet, even (in -those days) of the type of literary sophistication which is (or was) -called decadent! There was about him a perceptible aroma of literary -self-consciousness. He had begun to contribute to magazines and -newspapers the verses which he soon gathered into a first volume, “A -Summer of Love” (an “author’s book,” as the trade term has it), verses -patently derivative in character (as whose early verses are not?), -showing the influences of various masters. - -He had already become a bit of a celebrity, arriving at twenty-five -in _Who’s Who_. In conversation he spoke with striking fluency and -precision, and a rather amusing effect of authority; all of which, -together with a ready command, rather incongruous for his years, of -very apt words little employed in speech, gave a general impression, I -fancy, of something of an infant prodigy. He wrote in a letter of this -time of the poems of Coventry Patmore: - - I have come to regard them with intense admiration. Have you - read them? Patmore seems to me to be a greater poet than - Francis Thompson. (Kilmer, had by the way, just given a lecture - at Columbia University on Francis Thompson.) He has not the - rich vocabulary, the decorative erudition, the Shelleyan - enthusiasm, which distinguish the “Sister Songs” and the “Hound - of Heaven,” but he has a classical simplicity, a restraint and - sincerity which make his poems satisfying. Some of his shorter - poems, such as “Alexander and Lycon” and “The Toys,” approach - Landor in their Greek economy. Of course, the “Angel in the - House,” and many other of his poems, are marred by Tennysonian - influences. But the “Unknown Eros” is a work of stupendous - beauty. It is certainly supreme among modern religious poems. - That part of it devoted to Eros and Psyche is remarkably - daring and remarkably fine. Psyche symbolizes the soul, and - Eros the love of God. Their amour is described with realistic - minuteness, even with humorous flippancy, and yet the whole - poem is alive with religious feeling. - -The finding of Patmore, by the way, was what might be called a -finger-post in Kilmer’s life. The fortunate introduction was performed -by, it is my impression, Kilmer’s friend Thomas Walsh. - -If in cold print to-day there is a slightly preposterous didactic -quality in these remarks of this youthful character, it should be -instantly noted as a tribute to the charm that was his that in the -presence of so much handsomeness and grace, combined with so much -flexibility of mind and agile humour, even this was an engaging thing. - -There was to Kilmer nothing whatever dry-as-dust about the erudite -business of lexicography; instead his impressionable nature found among -his co-workers a rich, a colourful, an exciting school of humanity. He -glowed continually with affectionate amusement at the motley band of -literary adventurers, intellectual soldiers of fortune, who apparently -were his colleagues. One, the most motley perhaps of all (the long -cherished dream of whose ancient bachelor life it was one day to write -a popular song), touched, for the first time, I think, the deepest -spring of his song--his profound and wide-ranging humanity. - - Some people ask: “What cruel chance - Made Martin’s life so sad a story?” - Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, - And wore an overcoat of glory. - - -II - -And then, lo! the aesthete became a churchman. After a couple of -years or so of lexicographic employment, work on the dictionary was -completed, and Kilmer entered what, with immense gusto, he described as -“religious journalism.” He became literary editor of _The Churchman_. - -He had completed a very thorough course in uptown New York apartment -house life (living, I think, in rapid succession in some half dozen -specimens of “the great stone box cruelly displayed severe against the -pleasant arc of sky”); and now removing to the suburban village of -Mahwah, New Jersey, in the Ramapo foothills, he entered upon his career -as one of the world’s most accomplished commuters. He used to say, with -a spacious gesture of the arm and a haughty inflation of the chest, -that it was no life at all, no life at all, for a man not to swing -around an orbit of at least sixty miles a day between his office and -his home. His home, even so! - - 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. - -What more exhilarating experience than the owning of a home! And one -paid one’s installments on the building loan with the fine pride of a -man exercising a noble prerogative. Yes, he often walked to Suffern -along the Erie track, and meditated on “what a house should do, a house -that has sheltered life,” - - That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, - A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and held up his stumbling feet. - -As became a churchman, he began to hold forth to his companion on the -train to and from the city on the fascinations of the Anglican poets. -Either his enthusiasm for the subject resulted in a series of articles -on the theme, or an assignment for such a series of articles resulted -in his enthusiasm, I don’t know which. The significant point is that it -was just as like to have been either way about. “Passon Hawker”--Robert -Stephen Hawker--Vicar of Morwenstow, a coast life-guard in a -cassock--who can recite off hand the deeds of his piety and his valour? -Well, on the Erie smoker he became one of the most romantic figures of -story. Robert Herrick, in a manner of speaking, went home many a night -on the Twelve-Forty-Five (Robert Herrick, that is, with his “Unbaptized -Rhimes” left out), and Bishop Coxe returned on the Seven-Fifty-Six in -the morning. - -Kilmer had already done a few book reviews for _The Nation_ and for the -_New York Times_; but at _The Churchman_ he acquired such a proficiency -at this exercise that he was able, jocularly, to regard Arnold Bennett, -as a literary journalist, as a “mere amateur.” The real reward of -“religious journalism,” however, it soon developed, was the opportunity -of writing a feature which the secular might call an editorial, but -the proper name of which this editor pronounced, in the tone and with -the manner of one who was consciously engaged in something grand, -gloomy and peculiar, as a “meditation.” - -The real meditations of Joyce Kilmer, however, were not “meditations” -so called, and partook in no wise of the nature of editorials. He had -been, in the main, a graceful troubadour who thrummed pleasant things -to his lady-love, and had a bright eye to his singing robes. He had -thought it rather fine, too, that refrain in imitation of Richepin: - - May booze be plenty, bulls be few, - The poet is the beggars’ king. - -He had even been much taken, artistically, with the thought of absinthe: - - O little green god in your crystal shrine, - Your heavenly dream-shower shed! - -It was when his business took him near to God, when his exploring -spirit, upon a peak in Darien, beheld that: - - Poems are made by fools like me, - But only God can make a tree, - -that he began to be a poet. “Trees,” which more than all the rest he -had written put together made his reputation, appeared in _Poetry. A -Magazine of Verse_ in August, 1913. - -At about this period it was that he was altogether born again. Then, -doubtless in castigatory reaction against his own aesthetic and -“decadent” wild oats, entered into his fibre that sovereign disdain for -the intellectual flub-dub which later gave such a delightful note of -“horse-sense” to all his humorous thought--the Johnsonian sting (“and -don’t you think you were an ass?”) which found its earliest biting -expression in the verses “To a Young Poet Who Killed Himself.” - -“I’ve been leading a rather active life, for several days,” was with -a gay salute of the hand, a frequent Kilmerian remark. In 1912 the -direction of the _New York Times Review of Books_ fell into the hands -of a high-spirited young man, a Max-Beerbohmian character, with a -decided taste for gaiety in reviews, Mr. Wetmore, who conducted that -organ through what is known in New York journalistic tradition as its -“meteoric period.” Mr. Wetmore’s wit perceived in Kilmer his happiest -rocket. Not only given his head but egged on by his editor to strive -for sublime heights of fantasy, this fairly unknown contributor shot -in a series of reviews which for readability was, the applause now -indicated, an altogether new thing in the book pages of an American -newspaper. “This is a bad book, a very bad book, indeed,” so ran the -style. “It is bad because it makes this reviewer feel old and fat -and bald.” If, together with their humorous assumption of a jovial -cocksureness of manner, the literary judgments expressed were, of -necessity, snap-shot judgments, there was nothing snap-shot nor assumed -about a certain quality in them which in general effect was the most -striking of all, namely, the reflection in a very positive way of a -radiantly clean and wholesome young nature, abounding in mental and -spiritual health. - -As one of the general prime movers in, and for a number of years -Corresponding Secretary of The Poetry Society of America, Kilmer -engaged on the side in activities which for many another would have -been in themselves almost a whole job. A fervent Dickensonian, he was -for a long period president and (one felt) the animating principle -of the American Dickens Fellowship. He accumulated offices to such -an extent that I am doubtful if anyone but himself knew exactly how -many employments he had altogether, or at any one moment. He conducted -the Poetry department of _The Literary Digest_ for something like -nine years, an obligation which he continued to fulfill even from -Camp Mills, Long Island, to the time when he sailed for France. For a -time he conducted a similar department in _Current Literature_, and -also did a quarterly article on poetry for, I think, the _Review of -Reviews_. Among his earlier essays in the lecture field was a paper on -“The Drama as an Instrument of Sex Education,” read before a regular -meeting of the Society of Sanitary and Moral Prophylaxis held at the -New York Academy of Medicine, in December, 1913. The society with the -playful name, I recollect, got seriously interested in the matter of -sex education as then expounded. Their views on the drama in this -connection were enlarged by acquisition of the idea that though “‘The -Great Love’ is, in my opinion, one of the most skilfully constructed -plays presented on the New York stage for many a year, I am quite -serious in saying that as a factor in sex education, it is a thousand -times inferior to ‘Bertha the Beautiful Cloak Model.’” - -As Kilmer was always decidedly what is termed a ready writer, what I -should attempt to describe as a natural writer (a startling exception -to the rule that easy writing makes hard reading), so he appeared to -have the gift of speaking readily in public. On frequent occasions, -at any rate in his early talks, he neglected altogether to prepare -any outline beforehand, and even sometimes to choose a subject. Every -now and then, I have known him repeatedly to say to his companion at -dinner, without, however, any trace at all of nervousness: “Now, look -here: Put your mind on this. Stop all that gossip. Tell me what I’m to -talk about. I have to begin” (looking at his watch) “in twenty-five -minutes.” - -He was particularly active in the affairs of the Authors’ Club, and was -a member of the Vagabonds, the Columbia University Club and the Alianza -Puertorriguena. In 1913 he ceased, officially, to be a churchman. -For a brief period he contemplated the prospect of a professorship, -lecturing on English Literature at the University of the South, -Sewanee, Tennessee. Then, to his great delight, he became a newspaper -man--as he continually put it, with much relish in the part, “a hard -newspaper man.” He became a special writer for the _New York Times -Sunday Magazine_. I am sure he saw himself in fancy as one of those -weather-beaten characters bred in the old-time newspaper school of -booze, profanity and hard knocks, his only text-book the police-court -blotter and the moulder of his youth a particularly brutal night -city-editor. He maintained, with humorous arrogance against opposing -argument, the thesis that every great writer had got his “training” -as a newspaper man. He delighted to point, as illustrations of this, -to Dickens, to Thackeray, and to a lot more, who, in any strict sense -of the word, were not “newspaper men” at all. Hard pressed, he even -stood ready to make some such hilariously sweeping assertion as that -George Eliot, Shakespeare, Tennyson and Robert Browning were, properly -perceived, “newspaper men.” - -At any rate, this hard newspaper man had to begin with a comical -equipment for his task: he would never learn to typewrite and he knew -nothing of shorthand. Or rather, he was remarkably well equipped, as -one of the outstanding traits of his character was the fearless zest -with which, so to say, he took the hurdles of life, and a peculiar -faculty in triumphing over such obstacles as his own limitations. He -rapidly invented a curious system of abbreviations and marks to remind -him of points, which served him as an interviewer as effectively as any -knowledge of stenography could have done. He energetically entered upon -his occupation as a feature writer with the customary themes of the -“Sunday story.” He interviewed, figuratively speaking, the man who had -discovered the missing link, and he got from the latest inventor of -perpetual motion all the arresting details of his machine. And a lively -part of the early Sunday morning ritual at his home was the advance -calculating with a tape measure of the week’s income from space writing. - -It was later that he created his own highly successful type of literary -interview. An intelligent perception of the business, a perception -which is not general, perhaps is required fully to appreciate the -fact that in this department of newspaper work he was an exceedingly -skillful journalist. The secret of his really brilliant success in this -field lay in large part in his instinct for luring the distinguished -subject of his interview into provocative statements, enabling him to -employ such heads as: “Is O. Henry a Pernicious Literary Influence?” -“Godlessness Mars Most Contemporary Poetry,” “Americans Lack Loyalty To -Their Writers,” “Shackled Magazine Editors Harm Literature,” “Declares -Our Rich Authors Make Cheap Literature” and “Says American Literature -Is Going To the Dogs.” - -At the time of the death of James Whitcomb Riley, Kilmer hurried to -the Catskills for his interview with Bliss Carman. On his way back -to the city, by way of his home at Mahwah, he dashed with his usual -impetuosity in front of the moving train he was seeking to board, was -knocked down and hurled or dragged a considerable distance, and taken -to the Good Samaritan Hospital at Suffern, New York, with three ribs -fractured and other injuries; where, wiring immediately to New York -for his secretary, he dictated an interview as engaging and as full of -journalistic craft as any he ever wrote. He seemed much more intent -on his Sunday story, it is reported by H. Christopher Watts, who was -acting as his secretary at that time, than on his predicament. - -I did not see Kilmer at this time myself, but I have an idea that, -when he had relieved his mind of the anxiety concerning his article, -he entered into the spirit of his experience with much relish. It -isn’t every day that one gets hit by a train, nor everybody that has -three ribs broken. Exhilarating kind of thing, when you see it that -way! I remember one time when I was practically in hospital myself he -went to a good deal of trouble to come to see me. He seemed to admire -my predicament very much, and, beaming upon me, remarked in high good -humour that it must be an entertaining thing to be so completely at the -mercy of circumstances over which you had no control. When shall we -look upon his like again! - - -III - -I really doubt very much whether anybody ever enjoyed food more than -Kilmer. The slender youth had become a decidedly stocky young man, -who ate mammoth meals with prodigious satisfaction. He delighted upon -sitting down to breakfast to maintain, with almost savage earnestness -(such was the amusing effect), that the most fitting dish for that meal -was steak. As a matter of fact, however, his habit was to miss his -breakfast altogether through haste to catch his train, except for a cup -of coffee and a piece of buttered toast which, when he missed the ’bus, -he ate, a mouthful every dozen or so leaps, on his way down the hill -(almost a mountain) to the station. Sundays, however, with the whole -day at home, he apparently regarded among other things as a sort of -barbecue. Looking over the morning table it was his custom to inquire -with the air of a man making a fairly satisfactory beginning, what was -scheduled for dinner. - -Kilmer never ate any lunch, as the ordinary world understands the -word--about the first hour of the afternoon he went (when his means -had become such that he could afford it) to a sort of Thanksgiving or -Christmas dinner every day. How proceeding directly to his office he -did any work afterward, was always considerable of a mystery to me. And -lunching alone he doubtless regarded as a misanthropic perversion. His -luncheons and his frequent dinners in town alone represented what many -would regard as a rather arduous social life, which however arduous, -however, never failed to include the weekly luncheon with his mother, -Mrs. Kilburn-Kilmer. As an epilogue, so to say, to his meal it was his -wont to have, speaking his order slowly so as to suck the full flavour -of the idea, “a large black cigar.” - -One time being in the city with his family for a period after the birth -of one of his children, he gave a series of Sunday morning breakfasts -at a fashionable restaurant (it was a pleasant crotchet with him -that he was “a fashionable young man”), entertainments which were -distinguished by, first, the fact the guests so abundantly represented -the world of journalism that they filled a good portion of the room, -and, secondly, by the circumstance of their lingering at the board -until mid-day diners began to arrive. - -How a poet could _not_ be a glorious eater, it was one of Kilmer’s -whims to say, he could not see; for the poet was happier than other -men by reason of his acuter senses, and as his eyes delighted in the -beauty of the world, so should his palate thrill with pleasure in the -taste of the earth’s bounteous yield for the sustenance of men. The -romance, too, of the things we eat he felt lustily. - - Rich spices from the Orient, - And fruit that knew Italian skies. - -He had another, and a decidedly quaint, notion of food. He firmly -believed that hearty eating was an adequate physical compensation for -loss of sleep. He was fond of declaring his faith in this fantastic -idea by means of a story of some “ancient receptive child” (friend of -his) who managed to bring up a family of seven (or so) children by -ill-paid hack-work occupying most of the day and night--a noble success -due entirely to noble meals. - - * * * * * - - This man has home and child and wife - And battle set for every day. - This man has God and love and life; - These stand, all else shall pass away. - -And “this man’s” days were long, long days: Kilmer’s home, a place -of boundless week-end hospitality and almost equally boundless -domesticity (guests being obliged to exercise much agility in -clambering about toys with which the stairs were laden), was also year -after year a place of almost unbelievable literary industry. The trying -idiosyncrasies of the artistic temperament were about as discernible -in Kilmer as kleptomania. He was, as you may say, social and domestic -in his habits of writing to an amazing degree. Night after night he -would radiantly walk up and down the floor singing a lullaby to one of -his children whom he carried screaming in his arms while he dictated -between vociferous sounds to his secretary or wife--his wife frequently -driven by the drowsiness of two in the morning to take short naps with -her head upon the typewriter while the literally tireless journalist -filled and lighted his pipe. - -This, however, was an atmosphere of cloistral seclusion compared with -Kilmer’s office at the _New York Times_. Here, where he regularly got -through each week enough hard work to hold down three or four fairly -capable young men, he maintained a sort of salon for a ludicrous -variety of picturesque characters with nothing in particular to do and -no place else to go, ranging from types of patrician leisure to stray -dogs of the literary world visibly out of a job. - -The latter class, indeed, apparently regarded him as a kind of a -clearing house for employment. A singularly convincing commentary on -the radiating humanity of this brilliant young man was one rather -grotesque feature of his mail. In addition to a constant and copious -stream of requests from persons but slightly known, or quite unknown to -him, for advice as to how to succeed in letters, and for his personal -imprimatur on their enclosed manuscripts, he was apparently constantly -in receipt of innumerable epistolary stories of extraordinary distress, -suffered (generally) by elderly characters defeated in the lists of -literature. Though there was in Kilmer’s robust nature a decided -distaste, somewhat analogous to the innate aversion of the clean in -spirit to moral obliquity, for what he termed “ineffectual people,” -there was too an amusing strain of paternal feeling toward most of -those of all ages with whom he was in contact. And this feeling he did -not neglect, whenever the occasion arose, to translate into practical -effect. - -He had a comical manner of terming his elders “young” So-and-So. I -was six years his senior, which at the period of life at which we -met represented a considerable difference in experience. And yet, -throughout our association, in spiritual force he was the oak, I the -clinging vine. And I know of cases where this was quite as much so when -the other man was something like fifteen years the elder. One such -instance, ludicrous in its contrast between the two men, was confessed -to me with deep feeling just the other day. - -“So-long” or “good-bye” was seldom Kilmer’s parting word. It was rather -a word he continually used which will be thought of as peculiarly his -as long as his memory endures, the closing word of “Rouge Bouquet.” The -last time I saw him at his home, then at Larchmont Manor, New York, -my companion (in marriage) and I upon leaving almost missed our car, -which started a block or so from the Kilmer house. As the three of us -dashed after it, Kilmer stopped this car by what seemed to me something -like sheer force of his willing it to stop. Then, as he dropped away -from the race, there came from him high and clear out of the night (and -always shall I hear it ring) his benediction: “Farewell! Children.” -Yes, it is even so; as the spirit is measured and the frailties of -the soul are numbered, how many who knew this wondrous boy were his -“children”! - -The wisdom of the maxim “A busy man is never too busy to do one thing -more” was indisputable in the spectacle of Kilmer. Though this was -not, so far as I recollect, a maxim he employed, he had one of his own -something like it, which admirably summed up his practical philosophy. -When confronted by some financial dilemma, he was fond of declaring: -“The demand creates the supply. A sound economic principle.” He seemed -to crave serious responsibilities and insistent obligations as some men -crave liquor; and he grew more rosy as these increased. - - 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! - -There was nothing incongruous to Kilmer about the incongruity expressed -in a communication written in 1916 to the Reverend Edward F. Garesché, -S. J.; a letter which began by saying, “I am sorry that your letter of -October 11 has been so long unanswered, but this has been the busiest -month of my life”; which then told of his looping the loop of the -country in lecture engagements; proceeded to discuss a matter which -had made a strong appeal to his heart, the founding of an Academy of -Catholic Letters to be called the Marian Institute; and concluded with -the remark, “I will gladly take on the work of acting secretary until -the members make their own selection.” - - -IV - -In 1913, Kilmer’s daughter Rose, nine months of age, was stricken with -infantile paralysis. It was then, upon his bringing his family to town -to give his daughter the treatment of a specialist, when he came to my -house to tell me of this, that I first distinctly realised that this -young man was remarkable--in a manner far beyond mere talent. The idea -which he kept firmly before his mind was that it had been declared -there was no occasion to fear her death as a result of her affliction. -During the course of his stay with me that day he said several times, -“Well, there are lots of people worse off than I am.” This idea, too, -it was apparent, he felt he must hold before him. And then, with his -amazing and unconquerable _flair_ for life, he launched upon the -theme that this was a “very interesting disease,” and he elaborated -the thought that an infirmity of the body frequently resulted in an -increased vitality of the mind. - -“I like to feel that I have always been a Catholic,” was a sentiment -frequently expressed by Kilmer. It has repeatedly been declared by -friends very close to him that his minute knowledge of pious customs -and practices of which a life-long Catholic might easily be ignorant -was a constant surprise to them, but that with respect to religion as -particularised in himself he kept silent, would never discuss the steps -that led to his conversion, and it was only by chance they discovered -he was a daily communicant. It was late in 1918 that Kilmer astonished -the little world that then comprised his family, his friends and -acquaintances by entering, with his wife, the Roman Catholic Church. -One afternoon not long after this occurrence he not so much invited as -directed me over the telephone to meet him that night for dinner at the -Columbia Club. His purpose soon became clear. This was the only solemn -hour I ever spent with Kilmer. I think it well to record here what he -deeply impressed upon me: that it was this searing test of his spirit -which had come upon him in the affliction of his daughter that fixed -his religion. - -Kilmer did not become a great patriot when his country entered the -world war. He was, of course, the same in fibre then as before. Only -then was known to him and visible to others what was latent in his -heart. And in this sense it was, I think, that it was clear to him that -he did not become, but had always been a Catholic, though he had not -earlier realised it. He tried all things and held fast to that which he -found good. He was inwardly driven to seek until his spirit found its -home. That only the time of his conversion was, in a sense, accidental, -and that the conversion itself was inevitable, must be evident in the -fact that he was never really himself before he became, as we say, a -convert. Then his fluid spirituality, his yearning sense of religion, -was stabilized. What is the “secret,” as we say, of all that has been -told of his ability? His courage, his mental and physical energy, were, -manifestly, unusual. But his character, in the faith that he embraced, -found its tempered spring. His talent was a wingéd seed which in the -rich soil which had mothered so much art found fructification. - -It is not an unsupported assertion to say that he was in his time and -place the laureate of the Catholic Church. His sentiments as to the -function of a Catholic poet he has expressed very positively in his -essays and lectures. He joyed in the new proof given by Helen Parry -Eden “that piety and mirth may comfortably dwell together.” “A convert -to Catholicism,” he wrote of Mr. Yeats on Lionel Johnson, “is not a -person who wanders about weeping over autumn winds and dead leaves, -mumbling Latin and sniffing incense.” Nor is it necessary to lay -æsthetic hands on the church’s treasures, “and decorate rhymes with -rich ecclesiastical imagery and the fragrant names of the saints.” -But in Faith one may find “that purity and strength which are the -guarantees of immortality.” - -And, once a Catholic, there never was any possibility of mistaking -Kilmer’s point of view: in all matters of religion, art, economics and -politics, as well as in all matters of faith and morals, his point of -view was obviously and unhesitatingly Catholic. Considerable as were -his gifts and skill as a politician in the business of his career, the -veriest zealot could not say that he did not do the most unpolitic -things in the service of his faith. A very positive figure, he laboured -tirelessly, alternating from one field to another, for the Catholic -Church. - -As a brilliant interpretative critic of Catholic writers, such as -Crashaw, Patmore, Francis Thompson, Lionel Johnson and Belloc, he -brought, I think I may venture to say, an altogether new touch into -Catholic journalism in America, a striking and distinguished blend of -“piety and mirth,” which had the rare and highly effective quality -of being both engaging and highly illuminating even to, as Kilmer -would amiably have said, the Pagan. Impetus, of course, was given -to his style in this by his admiration for the brilliant school of -English Catholic journalists, an impetus doubtless accelerated by the -personal acquaintance with Belloc, the Chestertons and the Meynells -he gained in a flying visit to England in 1914 to rescue his mother -from war difficulties in London; when, during a few odd moments before -his return, he established a lively connection with the Northcliffe -papers and _T. P.’s Weekly_. Even so, Kilmer almost, or quite, alone -transplanted this particular spark; and his note of witty common sense -and spiritual sensibility was particularly Kilmerian, too. - -One day about four years ago the village Post Office at Mahwah did a -totally unprecedented and most extraordinary business in outgoing mail, -and Kilmer was again multiplied manifold. The neat circulars which -he had printed and with which he stuffed the mail box announced that -the author of “Trees,” a member of the staff of the _New York Times_, -etc., etc., “offered the following lectures for the coming season.” The -result may best be epitomised in the parable of the gentleman who cast -his bread upon the waters to have it come back to him in the form of -sardine sandwiches. The rapid development of Kilmer’s lecture business, -which soon assumed the proportions of no mean career in itself, -immensely extended his force as a quickening influence in the Catholic -world. Before societies and educational institutions in many places, -frequently travelling as far as Notre Dame, Indiana, and Prairie du -Chien, Wisconsin, he flung his bright portraits of “seekers after that -real but elusive thing called beauty, a thing which they found in their -submission to her who is the mother of all learning, all culture, and -all the arts, the Catholic Church.” - - -V - -As a literary lecturer and a reader of his own poems before secular -audiences his success was no less abundant. In “the only combination of -its kind since Bill Nye and James Whitcomb Riley,” as the circular of -the J. B. Pond Lyceum Bureau stated it, “the young American Poet” and -the author of “Pigs is Pigs” contributed considerably to the lightening -of the rigours of existence by an extended repetition of “a joint -evening of readings from their works.” Ellis Parker Butler, in a letter -before me, writes of his partner on the programme: - - He was a most charming travelling companion and an ideal - team-mate for the purpose we had in mind. I would not have - thought of going “on tour” if I had not met Kilmer. My idea was - never to “go on tour” but, after I had met Kilmer, to “go on - tour with Kilmer.” He was altogether lovable and loved. - -It would be a decidedly false estimate of Kilmer which failed to note, -even with some emphasis, that he was an excellent man of business. -He “played the game,” in the exceedingly difficult job of earning -a thoroughly competent living at the literary profession, with a -dexterity which, it was frequently apparent, was at once an inspiration -and a despair to those who sought to rival him. The Kilmer cult which -grew apace was considerably accelerated by a rich Kilmerian strategy. -And he delivered to the little world of intensely intense literary -societies and blue-nosed salons which hung upon his lips the pure milk -of the word with a strongly humorous consciousness of the feat as a -part of the immense sport of living. - -Kilmer’s “act” as it was observed from behind the scenes is excellently -presented by an associate in the office of the _New York Times_. This -writer says in the _Philadelphia Press_: - - Our editor analysed him into three distinct manners: Kilmer, - the literary man; Kilmer, the lecturer; and Kilmer, himself. - His first appearance in the office would give you the cue to - him for the day. If he came in grinning with his pipe drawing - well, we would know that nothing was to be feared; he was - himself. When he got his “literary” manner on, the symptom - was a tapping of his eyeglass, with his right hand on the - fingers of his left. When he appeared in his cutaway coat and - a particularly pastoral necktie, we knew that on that day - the elderly ladies of This Literary Club or the young ladies - of That Academy were to be treated to a discourse on certain - aspects of Victorian verse. - - One day he came in, obviously decked out for a lecture. Without - his having said a word about it, the assistant Sunday editor - spoke up: “Let’s cut out work this afternoon and hear Kilmer - lecture.” A look of horror overspread his face. “For heaven’s - sake, don’t,” he said. “I couldn’t go through with it.” I don’t - believe any of us ever did hear him. - -A thing which I found very singular was that, in manner Kilmer was -apt, in the two or three later years of his life, to give strangers on -their first meeting the impression of being somewhat too dignified for -so young a man, of being, as his office associate John Bunker in an -admirable, even a remarkable, portrait of him at this period published -in _America_, says, “in fact just a trifle pompous.” Mr. Bunker -continues: “This was due partly to his physical appearance, and also, -insofar as it had any basis in reality, to that protective instinct -which quickly teaches a sensitive and imaginative spirit to cast a veil -between itself and the outer world.” - -I myself think this effect had its origin in the same perverse instinct -which causes you, immediately after talking with a deaf person, to -speak very loud to your next auditor whom you very well know can hear -perfectly; that is, it was the result of being keyed up to appearing on -an elevated platform before a curious throng. He one time astonished -me by the declaration that it was only by, quite early in his life, -drastically schooling himself to the task, one then exceedingly trying -and hateful to him, that he became able to rise and “speak” at all. -The most entertaining recollection, by the way, that I have of the -Kilmerian pontifical manner is of a time when he generously invited -me to have my shoes polished with him, thrust his hand deep into his -pocket to pay the boy, paused, and with a very large gesture directed -him to call in again later in the day. - -There is first-rate perspicacity in the remark of one of Kilmer’s -friends, Laurence J. Gomme, that at one score and ten he was, in the -amount that he had lived, about seventy years old. Something of the -force and sharpness of Mr. Bunker’s evocation of the man as he was at -last resides, I think, in the circumstance that here is no blending in -the mind of the flower and the bud. He says: “When I first met Kilmer -he had just passed his thirtieth year, but he gave me the impression -of being somewhat older. I afterwards spoke of this to him, and it was -his theory that newspaper work had served to age him. The truth was -that it was due not merely to his newspaper work, but generally to the -incessant and intense mental activity, the extraordinary and flaming -energy, whereby he crowded into ten years the experiences of several -ordinary lifetimes.” And this touch of the slight Bunker portrait is, I -feel, essential to any fuller picture: - - As to his physical aspect, he was stockily built and about - medium height, and his habit of body was what I should call - plump, though later, under the stress of military drill, he - changed somewhat in this last respect. I noted at once that - he had a remarkable head--well rounded, with broad and high - forehead and a very pronounced bulge at the back, covered - thickly with dark, reddish-brown hair. But his eyes were his - most remarkable feature. They were of the unusual colour of - red, and they had a most peculiar quality which I can only - inadequately suggest by saying that they literally glowed. It - actually seemed as if there were a fire behind them, not a - leaping and blazing fire, but a steady and unquenchable flame - which appeared to suffuse the whole eyeball with a brooding - light. This characteristic was so striking that I cannot help - dilating on it. And I observed later on that this glow, this - brooding and somewhat sombre light, never left his eyes even in - his most weary or most care-free moments, so that they gave the - impression of what I believe was the fact--the impression of a - brain behind them which was working intensely and perhaps even - feverishly every hour of the waking day. - -The better poet Kilmer became, as his friend Richardson Wright says in -his admirable “Appreciation” in _The Bellman_, the less like a poet he -acted. And after he grew up, he would about as soon have æstheticised, -off the platform, as he would have forged a check. Whenever he did -refer to poetry as related to himself he, as the slang term has it, -took it smiling. One of Kilmer’s most pronounced pet aversions was the -phrase, utterly mawkish to him, about “prostituting” one’s talent. -He one time explained to me, with considerable apparent pride, that -he used every idea three times: in a poem, in an article, and in a -lecture. - -Charles Willis Thompson, an editorial writer of the _New York Times_, -and to whom belongs the credit of first taking, as editor of the -_Sunday Magazine_ and _Book Review_, Kilmer’s “stuff” in any amount, -inspired, so to say, the poem “Delicatessen,” in this way. Mr. Thompson -happened to remark to Kilmer that of course there were a lot of -things which couldn’t be treated in poetry. Kilmer declared he would -like to know what they were. Mr. Thompson cast about in his mind for -the most ridiculous theme for a poem he could think of, and finally -proclaimed that no one could possibly write a poem about such a thing -as a delicatessen shop. “I’ll write a poem about a delicatessen shop,” -Kilmer promptly replied. “It will be a long poem. I’ll sell it to a -high-brow magazine. It will be much admired. And it will be a good -poem.” He insisted on betting on this the sum of several dollars. - -The origin of “The Twelve-Forty-Five” I do not exactly know. But I -remember shortly before that poem was written, sitting disgusted and -miserable with Kilmer in that horrible “Jersey City shed” waiting for -the midnight train. Taking out of his mouth that villainously large, -fifty-cent pipe (mentioned in all genuine appreciations) Kilmer, with -a fervour almost violent, suddenly exclaimed: “I certainly do like -railroad stations! They are fine places!” The very famous poem “The -White Ships and The Red” (a poem so wonderfully effective that it was -at once reprinted all over the country and in Europe) was a newspaper -assignment. He rather liked the poem when he saw it in the paper; -though, with his feet cocked up on his desk, he spoke apologetically -of what he felt to be the failure of the latter stanzas to link up -perfectly with the first, explaining that a luncheon appointment, at -which he chatted for an hour or two, had split the writing of it into -two sittings. That the author of this “Lusitania” poem thoroughly felt -and meant what he said, is, I fancy, sufficiently proven by the event -to permit of this being told. - -The point is, that Kilmer was a poet, an artist of a high order, a -perfectly conscious master of what he was doing. The febrile gush of -emotion he loathed. He knew finely that: - - 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. - -There was nothing accidental about the effect of his own verse, any -more than there was “luck” in his worldly success. He achieved the one -as he did the other by a masculine heart and mind. And while all things -were necessary and joyous, it was impossible not to feel that, after -all, throughout his day “the rhymer’s honest trade” was his primary -concern. - -He was sufficiently grounded in literature to feel, as Mr. Le Gallienne -says, no “weariness with those literary methods which had sufficed for -Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton, or Catullus or Bion, or François -Villon--content, with reverent ambition, to tread that immortal path.” - -In his religious mysticism a trace, and more than a trace, has been -found of Crashaw, of Vaughan, of Herbert, and of Belloc and Chesterton. -And there is no difficulty at all about finding in Kilmer hints of -Patmore, and there may be easily recognised something of the accents -of A. E. Housman and of Edwin Arlington Robinson. He did, indeed, to -put it in a racy phrase, have the drop on those who do not know that -all art that endures must have its roots in a constant interrogation of -the “unimpeachable testimony” of the ages. His song was as old as the -hills, and as fresh as the morning. Precisely in this, in fact, is his -remarkableness, his originality, as a contemporary poet; and in this -will be, I think, his abiding quality. “Simple and direct, yet not -without subtle magic,” wrote Father James J. Daly, S.J., in a review -of “Trees and Other Poems,” printed in _America_, his verse “seems -artlessly naïve, yet it possesses deep undercurrents of masculine and -forceful thought; it is ethical in its seriousness, and yet as playful -and light-hearted as sunlight and shadows under summer oaks.” And this -admirable summing up of Kilmer’s talent leaves little more in the way -of direct criticism to be said. - -Mr. Le Gallienne with felicitous tact of phrase has touched upon this, -that “no young poet of our time has so reverently, on so many pages, in -so many different ways, so playfully at times, as in that masterpiece -of playful reverence, ‘A Blue Valentine,’ woven through the texture -of his song the love of his lady--that lady ‘Aline,’ whose name will -be gently twined about his as long as the printed word endures.” A -misquotation in the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ led to an interesting -tribute to the author of “Trees.” Many readers of the _Journal_ were -somewhat startled to find the editor attributing to John Masefield the -lines: - - A tree that looks at God all day - And lifts her leafy arms to pray. - -The following issue of the magazine contained this correction and -acknowledgment by Mr. Bok: - - I am free to confess that I did not know the correct author. I - had been reading John Masefield that morning and unconsciously - wrote his name as the author of these lines. A number of - friends have pointed to the error and supplied the knowledge. - The author is Joyce Kilmer, and to him I owe, and here express, - my sense of deep apology. The exquisite lines were worthy of - John Masefield, but that does not make them less worthy of - their rightful author, as all will agree who read his beautiful - work in his book “Trees and Other Poems.” - -As one, somewhat effusive commentator has remarked, “Trees” just could -not be confined within the covers of a book. At once reprinted in -newspapers throughout the United States (and still being so reprinted) -it was crowned in that warmest of all ways in which a work of -literature can be honoured, by being cut out by the world and pasted in -its hat. In one version it reads, in part, in this way: - - Cuando contemplo un arbol pienso: nunca vere un poema tan bello - y tan intenso. - - Un arbol silencioso que con ansia se aferra a la dulce y jugosa - entrans de la tierra. - - Un arbol que mirando los cielos se extansia y en oracion - levanta los brazos noche y dia. - -Many of Kilmer’s poems have been translated into Spanish by Salomon de -la Selva, Enriquez Urenia and others, and have appeared in a number of -prominent South American papers. - -In a letter from France to Edward W. Cook, who in quest of material -for a book on contemporary poets had written Kilmer asking several -questions, Kilmer commented, among other things, on his “earlier -efforts in poetry” (as the questionnaire apparently had put it), in -a manner which is evidence again of how perfectly well he knew what -he was about. “If what I nowadays write is considered poetry,” he -announced, “then I became a poet in November, 1913.” Admirable for -hard-headedness, directness and precision, it is a statement which -leaves the critic no point upon which to take issue. His early poems -“were only the exercises of an amateur, imitations, useful only as -technical training.” The peculiar thing about these highly skilful -experiments in various forms of craftsmanship is that they were so very -much better as poems than the derivative efforts usually written at -this period of apprenticeship, “so free,” as Mr. Le Gallienne notes, -“from those artistic immaturities which have made many old great poets -angrily denounce unlicensed reprinters of their ‘first editions.’” And -in this fact they have a decided, and a perfectly legitimate, interest -for the observer of the development of his talent--though Kilmer -declared “they were worthless, that is, all of them which preceded a -poem called ‘Pennies,’ which you will find in my book ‘Trees and Other -Poems.’” He added, “I want all of my poems written before that to be -forgotten.” - -He was writing, one remembers, to a gentleman with whom he was so -slightly acquainted that he addressed him as “Dear Mr. Cook,” with the -measure of whose sympathy and critical acumen, it is to be inferred, he -was not conversant, and who presumably was about to estimate (with what -perspective he could not perceive) his earliest productions. It were -better to head off any uncertainty in the matter. Also, we all know, -one’s hot impatience with one’s strivings of yesterday is mellowed -by time into an amiable and appreciative tolerance of one’s earnest -efforts of twenty years ago. It is difficult to think that Kilmer at -fifty would have had an unjust scorn of those charming exercises on the -poetic scales he wrote at twenty-one. - -Anyhow, no man can, by decree or otherwise, obliterate his past; both -the good and the bad that he has done continue to pursue him. Ten times -thrice happy is he, rarest of men, who, like Kilmer, never penned a -line or said a word or did a deed that can arise to bring confusion -to those that love him. The world does not willingly let die those -verses on which glistens the dew of his tender youth. They are brought -forth for praise by no mean critics in tribute to his memory. And in -conformity with the wishes of those most jealous of his good name as -a poet a representative selection of his early poems is reprinted in -these volumes. - -He that lives by the pen shall perish by the pen, saith the wisdom of -James Huneker. For a sapling poet, within a few short years and by the -hard business of words, to attain to a secretary and a butler and a -family of, at length, four children, is a modern Arabian Nights Tale. -Equally impossible is it, seemingly, to accomplish another thing, which -is a remarkable part of Kilmer’s distinction. From first to last, from -the verses contributed to _Moods_ in 1909 to the last poem he wrote, -“The Peacemaker,” printed in the _Saturday Evening Post_ in October, -1918, Kilmer was a poet’s poet. “A pretty good poet,” said such a poet -(shaking his head at his conviction of the truth of this) as Bliss -Carman. His poems were repeatedly adjudged high places among the best -poems read before the Poetry Society. Among competitive honours, under -the name of “John Langdon” he won easily enough with his poem, “The -Annunciation,” first prize in the Marian Poetry contest conducted by -_The Queen’s Work_, in July, 1917, an award competed for by a great -number of poets, including many in other countries. He was a poet’s -poet who declared (with considerable vehemence, I remember) that he -certainly wished he had written “Casey At The Bat.” He one time said -in praise of a book of essays that it was “that kind of glorified -reporting which is poetry.” As a singer of the simpler annals of -humanity his place will draw closer and closer, I think, to that of the -most widely loved poet of our own era. Only the name of James Whitcomb -Riley expresses in greater measure the rich gift of speaking with -authentic song to the simplest hearts. A man who believes that churches -are devices of the devil and literature a syrup for crack-brained -females can enjoy, with profit to his soul, “The House With Nobody In -it,” “Dave Lilly” and “The Servant Girl and the Grocer’s Boy” equally -with “The Old Swimmin’-Hole” and “Little Orphant Annie.” - -If Colonel Roosevelt had never done anything other than what he has -done in writing, he would undoubtedly be highly esteemed as an American -man of letters. And people have made very creditable reputations as -humourists who never wrote anything like as humorous essays as those of -Joyce Kilmer. They fairly reek with the joy of life. They explode with -intellectual robustness. They are fragrant in fancy, richly erudite -in substance, touch-and-go in manner, poetic in feeling, rocking with -mirth, and display an extraordinary _flair_ for style. If it should -seem that I am not here measuring my words I suggest a reference to -a piece of documentary evidence called “The Gentle Art of Christmas -Giving,” a “Sunday story” in the _New York Times_, here reprinted. -Writing at top-notch speed, never looking again at what he had written, -intentionally producing a readily marketable commodity, from which -profit must be realised quickly, Kilmer was an exceedingly rare bird in -America; that is, a belletristic journalist. There is always the touch -to his work of a man of letters. Decidedly Bellocian, Chestertonian, -certainly his humorous essays are. But that it was a good deal more an -affinity of mind with, than an imitation of, those splendidly humorous -English philosophers is borne out by this: Joyce Kilmer did not talk -poetry, but he did talk exactly like his essays, which admirably -present the brave humorous wisdom of the man as his intimate friends -knew him. - -Official critical authority did not dampen his verve. As a contributing -editor of “Warner’s Library of the World’s Best Literature,” he -supplied the articles on Madison Cawein, John Masefield, William -Vaughn Moody and Francis Thompson. He contributed prefaces to various -volumes of standard authors. Excellent examples of this department -of his activity are his Introduction to Thomas Hardy’s “The Mayor of -Casterbridge” in the Modern Library, his introduction to the American -edition of the “Verses” of Hilaire Belloc, and the introduction to -the volume “Dreams and Images,” his anthology of Catholic poets. The -Introduction to this Anthology is dated 165th Regiment, Camp Mills, -Mineola, N. Y., August, 1917, just a year before Sergeant Kilmer’s -death in battle. Doubtless few know that at one time Kilmer had drawn -a contract to write a “Life” of Father Tabb. Because of peculiar -complications in the situation this enterprise, most unfortunately, -fell through. In 1916 Kilmer was called to the faculty of the School of -Journalism of New York University, in succession to Arthur Guiterman, -to lecture on “Magazine and Newspaper Verse.” The object of the course, -which was open to outsiders as well as to those enrolled in the School -of Journalism, was to familiarise the students with the practical side -of writing verse for publication. - - -VI - -It seems rather a misnomer, and something of an absurdity, to say that -Kilmer was ever neutral in anything. But in the political sense he was -a neutral, and, if it may be put that way, neutral to a pronounced -degree, preceding the entrance of the United States into the war. His -keen feeling for the sturdy virtues and robust customs of Old England, -Merrie England, was of course, patent. His delight in London, and the -English countryside, which he knew from a child, was manifest. The -pillars of his fairly large literature were, of course, English. His -profound sense of integrity was violently jolted by the violation -of Belgium. As the war went on, however, he developed an attitude -which was quite capable of being interpreted as Pro-German, by anyone -interested in so interpreting it. The explanation of this attitude is -simple enough. Instinctively a combative character intellectually, -his humorous essays, which expressed him so intimately, almost without -exception found their spring in his running counter to some current -idea. As he one time remarked, he was “bored by feminism, futurism, -free love;” and, too, he was invariably for the under dog. It may seem -rather grotesque to present Germany by implication as an under dog in -the early years of the war; the point is, the force of the argument -was so overwhelmingly against Germany that Kilmer reacted to this in a -characteristic fashion, stood boldly against the current, and was, in -fact, a neutral--until the sinking of the Lusitania. All reports agree, -including even reports from sources of strong anti-English feeling -where Kilmer’s inclination to see what could be said for Germany was -coveted, that from this point on his manner was altogether hostile to -Germany. Outside of his Lusitania poem he did not, so far as I know, -denounce the deed; but the unanimity and the precision with which the -change in him is fixed by all who observed him is striking. - -Kilmer’s successive literary passions were a curious medley. He seemed -to have been born with a great love for Scott, and he held stoutly to -Sir Walter throughout the years. In his burly days he found a humorous -sport in defending, with jovial emphasis, the old-fashioned chivalrous -romance against the scientific modern novel. In his æsthetic period he -had a touch, hardly more, of Oscar Wilde, though early in his literary -career he experienced a rather severe case of Swinburneitus. Some time -shortly after this he was very much intrigued by the Celtic revival. -Shaemas O’Sheel, a friend dating back to Columbia days, bears testimony -that an early boast of Kilmer’s was that an ancestor of his had been -hanged for taking a rebel’s part in ’ninety-eight. And though as we -know, Kilmer’s immediate ancestry was not Irish, a Gaelic enthusiast -who has made a specialty of the Irish language, suggests in his ardour, -that the name Kilmer is a derivation of Mac Gilla Mor. At any rate, an -affection for Ireland--her literature, her lore, her traditions, and -her people--was indeed natural with him. - -In his Yeats period Kilmer had about chosen “Nine Bean Rows” as the -name of his house then in the course of construction, though it was -not altogether “of clay and wattles made.” The thing which deterred -him from this decision was that persons unacquainted with the poem -“Innisfree,” to whom he spoke of the matter, conceived his address as -Number Nine Beanrose Avenue. What a funny street, they said, that is. -Literary merely, of course, that; and though a part of the whole, -remote from later, deeper and graver things. Something inherently Irish -in Kilmer undoubtedly was felt by many, Irish themselves and very much -so, who, in some cases, are “quite certain” that the fact of their -being Irish was the reason why he regarded them and their work as -writers with friendship. He did, indeed, like all manner of Irish. He -liked the Irish fairies, he liked Lady Gregory, he liked most decidedly -the poor Irish people who went to the Catholic church, and (as he later -showed), of all soldiers, Irish soldiers he liked best. - - 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. - -Everything chivalrous and sacrificial appealing to his deepest -instincts, he felt noble “delight in hopes that were vain.” It is not -at all improbable that had he been an Irishman born and resident in -Ireland he would have been among the martyrs of Easter Week. In certain -qualities of his soul a kinship with these spirits may readily be -traced. Some of them, I have been told, he knew personally; and his -reverence for Plunkett he has written. - - 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. - -And all that Kilmer wrote, every line of it, he wrote in two ways; he -wrote it in words, and he wrote it in his acts. When the idea of the -Poets’ Meeting to express the sympathy of American poets with the three -Irish martyred poets of Easter Week, Pearse, MacDonough and Plunkett, -first occurred to Eleanor Rogers Cox, she asked Kilmer’s advice about -it over the telephone. And he said, “Go ahead, I’ll back you up,” with -the result that the meeting, a success, took place in Central Park, -with Edwin Markham presiding, Kilmer, Margaret Widdemer, Miss Cox, -Louis Untermeyer, and many other representative poets taking part. - - When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is a 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. - -Indeed, in the logical scheme of things (or, at any rate, in Joyce -Kilmer’s scheme of things) the poet is a soldier, an idealist with -the courage of his song; and, in a manner of speaking, all soldiers -are poets, whether or not they ever pen a line, for they give supreme -expression to the conviction of their soul. And then, as Christopher -Morley has finely written in his tribute to Kilmer, “the poet must go -where the greatest songs are singing.” To anyone who knew Kilmer it -would have been perfectly dumfounding if, when war was declared between -his country and Germany, he had _not_ done exactly as he did. It is -inconceivable--to picture him moving about here, from restaurant to -office, in this hour. Flatly, the thing can’t be done. With him, when -he joined the army, it was only one fight more, the best, and as it -proved, the last. - -He hated many things, but I believe that of all things he hated most -a pacifist--a pacifist in anything. He was a fighter. He fought for -his home, stone by stone; he fought for his renown. His conception of -the church was the Church Militant. His thoughts dwelt continually on -warrior-saints. He believed in the nobility of war and the warrior’s -calling, so long as the cause was holy, or believed to be holy. As he -saw it, there was no question as to his duty. This I know, you might -as well have asked Niagara Falls why it pours over its ledge, as have -discussed with Kilmer the matter of his going to war. That was, in -its way, just such another force of nature. As to what might happen -to him, it is hardly necessary to remark that his faith told him that -that would be all right, too. John Bunker was among the last to bid him -farewell. There is the Kilmerian splendour in what he wrote: - - You didn’t pose, self-conscious of your lot, - Or speak of what might be or might have been; - You always thought heroics simply rot, - And so you merely wore your old-time grin. - -Kilmer had first joined the Officers’ Reserve Training corps. He soon -resigned from this. In less than three weeks after the United States -entered the war he enlisted as a private in the Seventh Regiment, -National Guard, New York. His own statement was: “I haven’t time for -Plattsburg: had too much work to finish, but I had to get in.” The -Regiment was mustered into the Federal Service on July 15, 1917; and -Kilmer expected to go to training camp somewhere in the South for a -couple of months, then to be sent to “France, or Russia, or Cuba, or -Mexico or somewhere else.” He had a great distaste for going to Russia, -because he disliked cold climates. He one time expressed a decided -aversion to a book commonly held to be quite good. When asked what -was the matter with it, he denounced it as being about “one of those -cold countries.” It would not, of course, have been Kilmer had he not -found elation in the distinguished and picturesque character of the -crack regiment to which he belonged. “We are the oldest outfit in the -Guard--Lafayette reviewed us in 1824 and Joffre two weeks ago.” If you -had not seen the dress uniform of “the Seventh” you heard all about it -at lunch. And “hard newspaper man” as he was, he became even “harder” -now. “Can’t hurt my feelings,” he wrote requesting a friend to be -quite frank with him. “Hard military character, seriously considering -acquisition of habit of chewing tobacco.” - -Shortly before the Seventh left New York for Spartanburg, South -Carolina, Kilmer was transferred, at his own request, to the 165th -Infantry, U. S. A., formerly the famous old “Fighting Sixty-ninth,” -New York, a unit of the Rainbow Division, assembled at Camp Mills, -Mineola, Long Island. He was most particular to impress upon his -friends the point that he had been transferred at his own volition. I -do not know that he ever said so, in so many words, but I gathered from -him the impression that a considerable part of his motive in having -himself transferred was occasioned by his belief that the 165th would -go sooner than the Seventh to the battlefield. Then, too, as we know, -he was “half Irish”; and an Irish-American regiment doubtless was a -powerful magnet to him. In the 165th the people he liked best of all -were “the wild Irish boys who left Ireland a few years ago, some of -them to escape threatened conscription, and travelled about the country -in gangs, generally working on the railroads. They have delightful -songs that have never been written down, but sung in vagabonds’ camps -and country jails. I have got some of the songs down and hope to get -more--‘The Boston Burglar’--‘Sitting in My Cell All Alone’--they are a -fine, a veritable Irish-American folk-lore.” - -Kilmer at this time was the father of four children, named -respectively Kenton Sinclair, Rose, Deborah Clanton and Michael Barry. -One day he appeared in my office on an errand of business relating -to the handling of his literary property. He was, in outward effect, -perfectly composed, an admirable picture of a young soldier. It was -then, in what followed, that he displayed the most extraordinary, the -most amazing, measure of spiritual stature that I ever observed in any -man or ever read of in any human book. Settled, with his customary air, -in my chair, he demanded some pipe tobacco. I had none. And for this -he heartily damned me out. Then he said: “Bob, my affairs are somewhat -in disarray.” Thinking that perhaps he wanted to borrow two dollars, -or something like that, I asked: “What’s the matter, Joyce?” “Well,” -he answered, quite in his ordinary way, “several days ago Rose died; -yesterday my son, Christopher, was born; Kenton is with my wife at her -mother’s; my family is, in fact, very much scattered; I’m expecting to -go to France within a few days--and I have many other difficulties.” -That was all he said as to this. He then talked excellent business. I -went to the elevator with him. We shook hands more quietly than usual; -he said, “Good-bye, Bob;” and the door of the car closed upon him, -standing erect in his military overcoat, looking somewhat serious. -That was all. - -From Company H. Kilmer was transferred, within a short time, to -Headquarters Company, and exchanged his eight hours a day of violent -physical exercise (“most deadening to the brain, a useful anodyne for -one, coming as it did after my grief,” he wrote in an intimate letter) -for exacting but “interesting” statistical work. Though called Senior -Regimental Statistician he continued to rank as a private. His work -was under the direction of the Regimental Chaplain, Father Francis -Patrick Duffy. He was thankful, he wrote from Mineola in a letter at -this time, that he was not with the Seventh at Spartanburg, as from -Mineola he could telephone to his wife every night, and he said: “I’ll -be an accomplished cuss when I get back from the wars--I’ll know how to -typewrite and to serve Mass and to sing the ‘Boston Burglar.’” - - -VII - -It was “the pleasantest war he had ever attended,” so he wrote back -from France. “Nice war, nice people, nice country, nice everything,” -he said on the back of a postcard. To the Reverend James J. Daly he -wrote, “When I next visit Campion, I’ll teach you (in addition to ‘The -Boston Burglar’) an admirable song called ‘Down in the Heart of the -Gas-House District.’ I sing it beautifully.” And “as a common soldier, -I have the privilege of intimacy with the French peasants--and I find -them edifyingly good Catholics.” But his pleasures in war he has told, -as none but the author of “Trees” and “Main Street” could tell them, in -his letters. What he never told must be read between the lines. When -the war was over, he said, he never wanted again to go far away from -Browne’s Chop House and Shanley’s Bar. Though it is firmly held in the -background, there is in all that he wrote from France, it seems to me, -a reflection that his life was, so to say, somewhat in disarray. And -clearly enough, though proudly, too, in the few poems that he sent back -he spoke his body’s pain: - - Upon his will he binds a radiant chain, - For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free. - It is his task, the slave of liberty, - With his own blood to wipe away a stain. - That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain, - To banish war, he must a warrior be; - He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see, - And gladly dies, abundant life to gain. - -And: - - My shoulders ache beneath my pack - (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). - - I march with feet that burn and smart - (Tread, Holy feet, upon my heart). - - Men shout at me who may not speak - (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). - - I may not lift a hand to clear - My eyes of salty drops that sear. - - (Then shall my fickle soul forget - Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?) - - My rifle hand is stiff and numb - (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). - -And in the closing lines of this poem certainly is given, as fully as -anything can be told in this world, the answer to the question, How did -the war most affect Joyce Kilmer?-- - - Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me - Than all the hosts of land and sea. - - So let me render back again - This millionth of Thy gift. Amen. - -Though he said, “I have very little chance to read contemporary poetry -out here,” he did read, as he says, “what do you suppose? The ‘Oxford -Book of English Verse.’” And he hoped that contemporary poetry was - - reflecting the virtues which are blossoming on the blood-soaked - soil of this land--courage, and self-abnegation, and love, and - faith--this last not faith in some abstract goodness, but faith - which God Himself founded and still rules. France has turned - to her ancient faith with more passionate devotion than she - has shown for centuries. I believe that America is learning - the same lesson from war, and is cleansing herself of cynicism - and pessimism and materialism and the lust for novelty which - has hampered our national development. I hope that our poets - already see this tendency and rejoice in it--if they do not - they are unworthy of their craft. - -“Just what effect the war would have had on Kilmer had he been spared -is of course an entirely elusive topic,” has said one very able and -on the whole most valuable commentator, speaking from the testimony -then in hand, and voicing, I fancy, an idea still rather general. It -is not now, I think, an elusive topic at all, but a matter as plain -as a pikestaff. And the matter is, by the way, the second of the two -most indispensable pages in Kilmer’s story. It is a page in which his -character underwent another metamorphosis as consequential in its -effect on his talent even, if that could be possible, as his conversion -to the Catholic faith. - -Kilmer left the United States a professional writer from his -twenty-third year, and one of the most accomplished, prolific and -industrious journalists of his day. Writing with him had become a habit -almost as natural as speech. It was his intention when he left New York -to write a war book. He discussed this project with his publishers even -so definitely as to have settled upon a title: “Here and There With the -Fighting Sixty-Ninth.” As time passed it became puzzling why no “copy” -of any kind came from him. And as still more time passed this matter -assumed for me an element of more than considerable mystery. It was -incomprehensible because none of the reasons which would ordinarily -apply in such a situation explained Kilmer’s case to me. If it had -been anyone else I should have concluded that he was unable to find -time to write anything. But precisely the point about Kilmer was that -he did the impossible: it was quite his habit to, in the racy phrase, -“get away with” situations which would have floored anyone else. It -was to my mind an illogical hypothesis that he could be frustrated -by obstacles. And I felt that, inexplicable as it was for Kilmer to -fail in anything or to neglect any opportunity, he was here failing in -justice to his career. How was it in fact? As it had always been. He -was receiving the light opened to him. There could not be, I submit, -any more telling proof that he had genius, the capacity to become an -absolutely great writer, than this: that in this war which has prompted -more people to write, and has produced more “copy” than nearly all the -other events of history put together, he ceased altogether to be a -journalist of any kind; that is, even the instinct of the journalist -dropped from him, when he touched it. - -He had had no thought, he says, of attempting to report the war: -“If I had, I’d have come over as a correspondent instead of as a -soldier.” All his days he had been trying to get closer and closer -to the heart of life. In the war his profound instinct for humanity -found fulfilment. Of his close comrades he writes: “Say a prayer for -them all, they’re brave men and good, and splendid company. Danger -shared together and hardships mutually borne develops in us a sort -of friendship I never knew in civilian life, a friendship clean of -jealousy and gossip and envy and suspicion--a fine, hearty, roaring, -mirthful sort of thing, like an open fire of whole pine-trees in a -giant’s castle.” - -He was at present “a poet trying to be a soldier.” “To tell the truth, -I am not at all interested in writing nowadays, except in so far as -writing is the expression of something beautiful. And I see daily and -nightly the expression of beauty in action instead of words, and I find -it more satisfactory.” - -“My days of hack writing are over, for a time at least.” Upon his -return to civilian life his civilian work “may be straight reporting.” -As for “that mob of war writers (thank God--let me pharisaically -say--that I am not one of them).” The book? “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!” - -Kilmer’s “Holy Ireland,” a sketch of a lodging for the night enjoyed by -a little group of Irish-American soldiers at a farmhouse in France, is -the only piece of prose writing of any extent at all that came from him -overseas. He himself wrote of it to his publishers: “I sent you a prose -sketch ‘Holy Ireland,’ which represents the best prose writing I can do -nowadays.” It is unmistakably a piece of literature, that is to say, -though slight enough in substance, a work of firm and exquisite and -enduring art. - -In a letter to the Reverend Edward F. Garesché, S.J., one of the last -he wrote, the following paragraphs occur: - - I have written very little--two prose sketches and two - poems--since I left the States, but I have a rich store of - memories. Not that what I write matters--I have discovered, - since some unforgettable experiences, that writing is not the - tremendously important thing I once considered it. You will - find me less a bookman when you next see me, and more, I hope, - a man. - -And he ends with these words: “Pray for me, my dear Father, that I may -love God more and that I may be unceasingly conscious of Him--that is -the greatest desire I have.” - -Though he gloried in being a private soldier, it is quite evident, too, -that he was charmed with his promotion. “I am now a sergeant,” appears -on the back of every copy of the well-known “tin-hat” post-card, and -in every letter near this date. In more than one intimate letter he -says: “I’ll never be anything higher. To get a commission I’d have to -go away for three months to school, and then whether or not I was made -an officer--I’d be sent to some outfit other than this, and I don’t -want to leave this crowd. I’d rather be a sergeant in the 69th than a -lieutenant in any other regiment in the world.” “A volunteer regiment, -the bravest and best regiment in the army.” “I have a new stripe--an -inverted chevron of bright gold on the left cuff for six months’ -service ... let my children be proud of it.” And, “a long moustache I -have.” - -For a while he had worked in the Adjutant’s Office, having special -charge of recording and reporting statistics. Then he was no longer -(“thank God!”) doing statistics. Someone over here had said that he -had “a bullet-proof job.” “I had one, but succeeded, after two months -intriguing, in getting rid of it.” “At that time I was just an office -hack--now I am a soldier, in the most fascinating branch of the service -there is--sheer romance, night and day--especially night.” He had -become attached to the Regimental Intelligence Section, working as -an observer--“very amusing work,” “wonderful life!”--“the finest job -in the army!” But “I don’t know what I’ll be able to do in civilian -life--unless I become a fireman!” “I am having a delightful time, but -it won’t break my heart for the war to end.” - -“Rouge Bouquet” was his “first attempt at versification in a dug-out.” -He had lived in “billets, dug-outs, trenches, observatories and all -sorts of queer places.” And at length, he was “(after a most violent -and amusing month) resting (six hours out of every twenty-four!) in a -beautiful place, among the firs and pines on a lovely mountain top, -from which I can see strange things.” “I sleep on a couch made soft -with deftly laid young spruce boughs and eat at a table set under good, -kind trees.” And with that inimitable, irrepressible and incomparable -Kilmerian pleasure he contemplated what he called “my senility”: - - I picture myself at sixty, with a long white moustache, a pale - gray tweed suit, a very large panama hat, I can see my gnarled - but beautifully groomed hands as they tremblingly pour out the - glass of dry sherry which belongs to every old man’s breakfast. - I cannot think of myself at seventy or eighty--I grow - hysterical with applause--I am lost in a delirium of massive - ebony canes, golden snuff-boxes, and dainty silk hats. - -“When we first met over here,” wrote Kilmer’s friend Charles L. -O’Donnell, Chaplain 332d Infantry, in a letter to Thomas Walsh which -should be written into the record, “he was in the personnel department -of his regiment, having had his time of service in the field and done -some particularly good work in the intelligence line. He was then about -to go into the intelligence permanently and so avid of it was he as -to be ready to relinquish his hard-earned sergeant’s chevrons. In the -event, however, that sacrifice was not demanded. After this change in -his work he was much more agreeably placed, in particular he had more -freedom and more time to see his friends. He was worshipped by the men -about him. I have heard them speak with awe of his coolness and his -nerve in scouting patrols in No Man’s Land. As an intelligence man he -made personally a few very valuable discoveries: this was when I was -with him in our comparatively quiet sector. I can only conceive that he -distinguished himself later in the larger opportunities that came his -way.” The letter continues: - - We were both in the army but he was also of it. I was amazed - to find him so quickly become a soldier with the soldier’s - point of view. But he had seen so much more than I, even then, - and each day in this war is equivalent to long campaigns of - other times. I felt, and was a rookie beside him. He had got - a perspective on his life at home that made him smile with - indulgent pity on some literary aspects of it. I spoke of what - must have been his earlier views, the good he was doing and the - need of doing it. But he was not ready to relinquish a position - he had bought at the price of suffering, cold, hunger, fatigue, - with the hourly self denials that military discipline means. - Not that he spoke of these things in this way, but I knew they - had gone into the creation of his new stand and I knew in my - heart it was higher ground. - -A closer witness is Sergeant-Major Lemist Esler, who served side by -side with Kilmer in the Marne advance. Shortly afterward returned to -the United States for service as an instructor at an army cantonment, -he said in an interview in the _New York Times_: “The front was his -goal and no sooner had the regiment reached France than he made every -possible effort to be transferred.” - - He finally had himself moved to the Intelligence Department. - It was in that department that he was elevated to the rank of - Sergeant. I was supply sergeant at the time and Joyce Kilmer - was a perfect trial to me. He would always be doing more than - his orders called for--that is, getting much nearer to the - enemy’s positions than any officer would ever be inclined to - send him. Night after night he would lie out in No Man’s Land, - crawling through barbed wires, in an effort to locate enemy - positions, and enemy guns, and tearing his clothes to shreds. - On the following day he would come to me for a new uniform. - -“There was something of what the Scots call ‘fey’ about him as a -soldier,” is the testimony of the chaplain of the 165th Infantry, -Father Duffy. “He was absolutely the coolest and most indifferent man -in the face of danger I have ever seen. It was not for lack of love of -life, for he enjoyed his life as a soldier--his only cross was distance -from home. It was partly from his inborn courage and devotion--he would -not stint his sacrifice--partly his deep and real belief that what God -wills is best.” - -Once Marshal Foch’s advance began, Kilmer seems to have been constantly -in the thick of the fighting. In the _New York Evening Sun_ of August -8 a correspondent told how a party composed of Major Donovan, Joyce -Kilmer and John Kayes advanced to the edge of a wood and captured a -German dressed in an American uniform. - -“Joyce was one of those soldiers who had a romantic love of death in -battle,” Father Duffy has added, “and it could not have missed him -in time.” No, the stars move in their appointed courses; and there -are certain things written aforetime. While he had life there was a -defiant hope among us who knew his great gift for triumph that somehow -this would see him through, that even over the inevitable he would -prevail. But Destiny would not have been her immemorial self had she -stayed her tragic hand from this shining figure, type and symbol in his -taking of her unscrutable ways with man. And, somehow, in his death his -life was all of a piece, and one cannot but admire the poetic justice -of his end. - - Never fear but in the skies - Saints and angels stand - Smiling with their holy eyes - On this new-come band - - * * * * * - - Your souls shall be where the heroes are - And your memory shine like the morning-star. - -Sergeant Kilmer was killed in action near the Ourcq, July 30, 1918. -“He had,” runs the report in _The Stars and Stripes_, the newspaper -of the American Expeditionary Force, “volunteered his services to the -major of the foremost battalion because his own battalion would not be -in the lead that day.” From the report of Sergeant Esler and a letter -(printed in the _New York Times_) to a friend in New York by Alexander -Woollcott, dramatic critic of the _Times_ before his service abroad, -the facts are established. - -At the dawn of a misty Sunday, July 28, the 165th had made a gallant -and irresistible charge across the river and up the hill. In the height -of the great five days battle for the mastery of the heights which -followed Kilmer was killed. It so happened that he was close to the -Major when the battalion adjutant fell and, in the emergency of the -battle, without commission or appointment, he was serving as a sort -of aid to the battalion commander. Discovering that the woods ahead -harboured some machine guns, he had reported this fact, and was sent in -the lead of a patrol to establish their exact location. When a couple -of hours later the battalion advanced into the woods to clear the spot -of the enemy, several of Kilmer’s comrades caught sight of him lying, -as if still scouting, with his eyes bent over a little ridge. So like -his living self he was, they called to him, then ran up--to find him -dead with a bullet through his brain. He lies buried, we read, beside -Lieutenant Oliver Ames at the edge of a little copse that is known as -the Wood of the Burned Bridge, so close to the purling Ourcq that, -standing by the graveside, one could throw a pebble into its waters. -Perhaps ten minutes walk to the north lies the half obliterated -village Seringes, captured by American troops the night before Kilmer -was killed. Eloquent of affection in the making of it, the grave is of -course, marked by a wooden cross, on which is written, “Sergeant Joyce -Kilmer.” Then, after the inscription of his company and regiment, is -the line: “Killed in Action--July 30, 1918.” - -It is not a rule to bury enlisted men with officers, but Kilmer had won -so much admiration and respect not only from the enlisted men in his -company but also from the officers, that the commander of the regiment -authorised that his grave be dug on the spot and that he be buried next -to the grave of the heroic Lieutenant who had just lost his life. - -Sergeant Woollcott was with the regiment in the woods the day they -came out of the line to catch their breaths, and the news of Kilmer’s -death, he says, “greeted me on every turn. The Captain under whom he -had been serving for several months, the Major at whose side he fell, -stray cooks, doughboys, runners--all shook their heads sorrowfully and -talked among themselves of what a good soldier he had been and what an -infinite pity it was that the bullet had had to single him out. And -in such days as these, there are no platitudes of polite regret. When -men, good men and close pals, are falling about you by hundreds, when -every man in the regiment has come out of the fight the poorer for the -loss of not one but many friends, there is no time to say pretty things -about a man just because he exists no longer. Death is too common to -distinguish anyone. So the glowing praise and admiration I heard for -Joyce was real--every word of it.” - -It is, I think, fitting to preserve in a form more durable than its -newspaper publication more of this letter. It continues: - - I gathered that his stock among men of all ranks had been - climbing steadily from the first days when many of them, - including myself, felt that he was out of his own element in a - rip-roaring regiment. As the regiment’s laureate, they all knew - him and they knew, too, that he was at work on a history of the - regiment. He had become quite an institution, with his arms - full of maps as they used to be full of minor poetry, and his - mouth full of that imperishable pipe. - - They all knew his verse. I found any number of men who had - only to fish around in their tattered blouses to bring out the - copy of a poem Kilmer wrote in memory of some of their number - who were killed by a shell in March. You see that there is a - refrain which calls for bugle notes, and I am told that at - the funeral services, where the lines were first read, the - desperately sad notes of “Taps” sounded faintly from a distant - grave when the refrain invoked them. The lines were read by - Joyce’s own beloved Father Duffy, and those who were there - told me the tears streamed down the face of every boy in the - regiment. They just blubbered. - - -VIII - -Indeed, such was the power of his spirit over other men that even now -he has become a legend, his excellence a popular heritage, benefiting -and enriching human life. Writing with the pen of all those who knew -him in his overcoat of glory and debonair hat, his friend Charles -Willis Thompson says: “I had a great affection and a deep admiration -and respect for him, different from that which I had for anybody else I -knew.” And expressing, I think, the heart of innumerable ones who did -not chance his way, Booth Tarkington says: “But I had a sense of him -as of something fine and of fine promise. I haven’t read much that he -wrote; but it was like knowing that there was a good picture somewhere -in a gallery that I hadn’t visited, but might, some day.” - -The full beauty of his life is known only to God. As religion was the -first thing in his life let it be the last thing said of him. In one -of his last letters, he wrote to Sister M. Emerentia of St. Joseph’s -College, Toronto, Ontario: “Pray that I may love God more. It seems to -me that if I can learn to love God more passionately, more constantly, -without distractions, that absolutely nothing else can matter. Except -while we are in the trenches I receive Holy Communion every morning, -so it ought to be all the easier for me to attain this object of my -prayers. I got Faith, you know, by praying for it. I hope to get Love -the same way.” - - - - -POEMS FROM FRANCE - - - - -ROUGE BOUQUET - - - In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet - There is a new-made grave to-day, - Built by never a spade nor pick - Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. - There lie many fighting men, - Dead in their youthful prime, - Never to laugh nor love again - Nor taste the Summertime. - For Death came flying through the air - And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, - Touched his prey and left them there, - Clay to clay. - He hid their bodies stealthily - In the soil of the land they fought to free - And fled away. - Now over the grave abrupt and clear - Three volleys ring; - And perhaps their brave young spirits hear - The bugle sing: - “Go to sleep! - Go to sleep! - Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. - Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, - You will not need them any more. - Danger’s past; - Now at last, - Go to sleep!” - - There is on earth no worthier grave - To hold the bodies of the brave - Than this place of pain and pride - Where they nobly fought and nobly died. - Never fear but in the skies - Saints and angels stand - Smiling with their holy eyes - On this new-come band. - St. Michael’s sword darts through the air - And touches the aureole on his hair - As he sees them stand saluting there, - His stalwart sons; - And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill - Rejoice that in veins of warriors still - The Gael’s blood runs. - And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, - From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, - A delicate cloud of buglenotes - That softly say: - “Farewell! - Farewell! - Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! - Your souls shall be where the heroes are - And your memory shine like the morning-star. - Brave and dear, - Shield us here. - Farewell!” - - - - -THE PEACEMAKER - - - Upon his will he binds a radiant chain, - For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free. - It is his task, the slave of Liberty, - With his own blood to wipe away a stain. - That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain. - To banish war, he must a warrior be. - He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see, - And gladly dies, abundant life to gain. - - What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead? - No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled. - Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread - To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled, - And has for captain Him whose thorn-wreathed head - Smiles from the Cross upon a conquered world. - -[Illustration: FACSIMILE REPRODUCTION OF AN AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT OF THE -LAST POEM WRITTEN BY JOYCE KILMER] - - - - -PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE - - - My shoulders ache beneath my pack - (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). - - I march with feet that burn and smart - (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). - - Men shout at me who may not speak - (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). - - I may not lift a hand to clear - My eyes of salty drops that sear. - - (Then shall my fickle soul forget - Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?) - - My rifle hand is stiff and numb - (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). - - Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me - Than all the hosts of land and sea. - - So let me render back again - This millionth of Thy gift. Amen. - - - - -WHEN THE SIXTY-NINTH COMES BACK - - - The Sixty-ninth is on its way--France heard it long ago, - And the Germans know we’re coming, to give them blow for blow. - We’ve taken on the contract, and when the job is through - We’ll let them hear a Yankee cheer and an Irish ballad too. - - The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song, - And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant - throng. - With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack, - New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back. - - We brought back from the Border our Flag--’twas never lost; - We left behind the land we love, the stormy sea we crossed. - We heard the cry of Belgium, and France the free and fair, - For where there’s work for fighting-men, the Sixty-ninth is there. - - The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song, - And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant - throng. - With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack, - New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back. - - The men who fought at Marye’s Heights will aid us from the sky, - They showed the world at Fredericksburg how Irish soldiers die. - At Blackburn Ford they think of us, Atlanta and Bull Run; - There are many silver rings on the old flagstaff but there’s room for - another one. - - The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song, - And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant - throng. - With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack, - New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back. - - God rest our valiant leaders dead, whom we cannot forget; - They’ll see the Fighting Irish are the Fighting Irish yet. - While Ryan, Roe, and Corcoran on History’s pages shine, - A wreath of laurel and shamrock waits the head of Colonel Hine. - - The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song, - And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant - throng. - With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack, - New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back. - - - - -MIRAGE DU CANTONMENT - - - Many laughing ladies, leisurely and wise, - Low rich voice, delicate gay cries, - Tea in fragile china cups, ices, macaroons, - Sheraton and Heppelwhite and old thin spoons, - Rather dim paintings on very high walls, - Windows showing lawns whereon the sunlight falls, - Pink and silver gardens and broad kind trees, - And fountains scattering rainbows at the whim of a breeze, - Fragrance, mirth and gentleness, a Summer day - In a world that has forgotten everything but play. - - - - -POEMS AT HOME - - - - -WARTIME CHRISTMAS - - - Led by a star, a golden star, - The youngest star, an olden star, - Here the kings and the shepherds are, - Akneeling on the ground. - What did they come to the inn to see? - God in the Highest, and this is He, - A baby asleep on His mother’s knee - And with her kisses crowned. - - Now is the earth a dreary place, - A troubled place, a weary place. - Peace has hidden her lovely face - And turned in tears away. - Yet the sun, through the war-cloud, sees - Babies asleep on their mother’s knees. - While there are love and home--and these-- - There shall be Christmas Day. - - - - -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 blessèd 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 traveller’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 rôle to rôle, - 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. Garesché, 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 Brègy) - - - 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 linkèd 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 rose-bush 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 a 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! - - - - -MID-OCEAN IN WAR-TIME - -(For My Mother) - - - The fragile splendour of the level sea, - The moon’s serene and silver-veilèd 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! - - - - -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 æons of flame, I may, by grace of God, - Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare’s feet have trod. - - - - -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 Émile 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 hast 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 TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE - -(For Edward J. Wheeler) - - - Within the Jersey City shed - The engine coughs and shakes its head. - The smoke, a plume of red and white, - Waves madly in the face of night. - And now the grave incurious stars - Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars. - Against the kind and awful reign - Of darkness, this our angry train, - A noisy little rebel, pouts - Its brief defiance, flames and shouts-- - And passes on, and leaves no trace. - For darkness holds its ancient place, - Serene and absolute, the king - Unchanged, of every living thing. - The houses lie obscure and still - In Rutherford and Carlton Hill. - Our lamps intensify the dark - Of slumbering Passaic Park. - And quiet holds the weary feet - That daily tramp through Prospect Street. - What though we clang and clank and roar - Through all Passaic’s streets? No door - Will open, not an eye will see - Who this loud vagabond may be. - Upon my crimson cushioned seat, - In manufactured light and heat, - I feel unnatural and mean. - Outside the towns are cool and clean; - Curtained awhile from sound and sight - They take God’s gracious gift of night. - The stars are watchful over them. - On Clifton as on Bethlehem - The angels, leaning down the sky, - Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I-- - I ride, I blasphemously ride - Through all the silent countryside. - The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare, - Pollute the still nocturnal air. - The cottages of Lake View sigh - And sleeping, frown as we pass by. - Why, even strident Paterson - Rests quietly as any nun. - Her foolish warring children keep - The grateful armistice of sleep. - For what tremendous errand’s sake - Are we so blatantly awake? - What precious secret is our freight? - What king must be abroad so late? - Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night - And we rush forth to give him fight. - Or else, perhaps, we speed his way - To some remote unthinking prey. - Perhaps a woman writhes in pain - And listens--listens for the train! - The train, that like an angel sings, - The train, with healing on its wings. - Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries. - My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes. - He hurries yawning through the car - And steps out where the houses are. - This is the reason of our quest! - Not wantonly we break the rest - Of town and village, nor do we - Lightly profane night’s sanctity. - What Love commands the train fulfills, - And beautiful upon the hills - Are these our feet of burnished steel. - Subtly and certainly I feel - That Glen Rock welcomes us to her - And silent Ridgewood seems to stir - And smile, because she knows the train - Has brought her children back again. - We carry people home--and so - God speeds us, wheresoe’er we go. - Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale - Lift sleepy heads to give us hail. - In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand - Houses that wistfully demand - A father--son--some human thing - That this, the midnight train, may bring. - The trains that travel in the day - They hurry folks to work or play. - The midnight train is slow and old, - But of it let this thing be told, - To its high honor be it said, - It carries people home to bed. - My cottage lamp shines white and clear. - God bless the train that brought me here. - - - - -PENNIES - - - A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand, - Behold him stand; - A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. - The joy that once he had, - The first delight of ownership is fled. - He bows his little head. - Ah, cruel Time, to kill - That splendid thrill! - - Then in his tear-dimmed eyes - New lights arise. - He drops his treasured pennies on the ground, - They roll and bound - And scattered, rest. - Now with what zest - He runs to find his errant wealth again! - - So unto men - Doth God, depriving that He may bestow. - Fame, health and money go, - But that they may, new found, be newly sweet. - Yea, at His feet - Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid, - All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid. - - Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife, - And gain on loss. - What is the key to Everlasting Life? - A blood-stained Cross. - - - - -TREES - -(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) - - - I think that I shall never see - A poem lovely as a tree. - - A tree whose hungry mouth is prest - Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; - - A tree that looks at God all day, - And lifts her leafy arms to pray; - - A tree that may in Summer wear - A nest of robins in her hair; - - Upon whose bosom snow has lain; - Who intimately lives with rain. - - Poems are made by fools like me, - But only God can make a tree. - - - - -STARS - -(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S.J.) - - - Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, - Are you errant strands of Lady Mary’s hair? - As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through, - Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too? - - Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes, - Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies. - Now and then a wingéd child turns his merry face - Down toward the spinning world--what a funny place! - - Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!) - In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole. - Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, - Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky. - - Christ’s Troop, Mary’s Guard, God’s own men, - Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again. - Every steel-born spark that flies where God’s battles are, - Flashes past the face of God, and is a star. - - - - -OLD POETS - -(For Robert Cortes Holliday) - - - If I should live in a forest - And sleep underneath a tree, - No grove of impudent saplings - Would make a home for me. - - I’d go where the old oaks gather, - Serene and good and strong, - And they would not sigh and tremble - And vex me with a song. - - The pleasantest sort of poet - Is the poet who’s old and wise, - With an old white beard and wrinkles - About his kind old eyes. - - For these young flippertigibbets - A-rhyming their hours away - They won’t be still like honest men - And listen to what you say. - - The young poet screams forever - About his sex and his soul; - But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, - And polishes its bowl. - - There should be a club for poets - Who have come to seventy year. - They should sit in a great hall drinking - Red wine and golden beer. - - They would shuffle in of an evening, - Each one to his cushioned seat, - And there would be mellow talking - And silence rich and sweet. - - There is no peace to be taken - With poets who are young, - For they worry about the wars to be fought - And the songs that must be sung. - - But the old man knows that he’s in his chair - And that God’s on His throne in the sky. - So he sits by the fire in comfort - And he lets the world spin by. - - - - -DELICATESSEN - - - Why is that wanton gossip Fame - So dumb about this man’s affairs? - Why do we twitter at his name - Who come to buy his curious wares? - - Here is a shop of wonderment. - From every land has come a prize; - Rich spices from the Orient, - And fruit that knew Italian skies, - - And figs that ripened by the sea - In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil, - Strange pungent meats from Germany, - And currants from a Grecian hill. - - He is the lord of goodly things - That make the poor man’s table gay, - Yet of his worth no minstrel sings - And on his tomb there is no bay. - - Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, - This trafficker in humble sweets, - Because his little shops are raised - By thousands in the city streets. - - Yet stars in greater numbers shine, - And violets in millions grow, - And they in many a golden line - Are sung, as every child must know. - - Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes, - His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face, - His shop, and all he sells and buys - Are desperately commonplace. - - Well, it is true he has no sword - To dangle at his booted knees. - He leans across a slab of board, - And draws his knife and slices cheese. - - He never heard of chivalry, - He longs for no heroic times; - He thinks of pickles, olives, tea, - And dollars, nickels, cents and dimes. - - His world has narrow walls, it seems; - By counters is his soul confined; - His wares are all his hopes and dreams, - They are the fabric of his mind. - - Yet--in a room above the store - There is a woman--and a child - Pattered just now across the floor; - The shopman looked at him and smiled. - - For, once he thrilled with high romance - And turned to love his eager voice. - Like any cavalier of France - He wooed the maiden of his choice. - - And now deep in his weary heart - Are sacred flames that whitely burn. - He has of Heaven’s grace a part - Who loves, who is beloved in turn. - - And when the long day’s work is done, - (How slow the leaden minutes ran!) - Home, with his wife and little son, - He is no huckster, but a man! - - And there are those who grasp his hand, - Who drink with him and wish him well. - O in no drear and lonely land - Shall he who honours friendship dwell. - - And in his little shop, who knows - What bitter games of war are played? - Why, daily on each corner grows - A foe to rob him of his trade. - - He fights, and for his fireside’s sake; - He fights for clothing and for bread: - The lances of his foemen make - A steely halo round his head. - - He decks his window artfully, - He haggles over paltry sums. - In this strange field his war must be - And by such blows his triumph comes. - - What if no trumpet sounds to call - His arméd legions to his side? - What if to no ancestral hall - He comes in all a victor’s pride? - - The scene shall never fit the deed. - Grotesquely wonders come to pass. - The fool shall mount an Arab steed - And Jesus ride upon an ass. - - This man has home and child and wife - And battle set for every day. - This man has God and love and life; - These stand, all else shall pass away. - - O Carpenter of Nazareth, - Whose mother was a village maid, - Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath - In scorn on any humble trade? - - Have pity on our foolishness - And give us eyes, that we may see - Beneath the shopman’s clumsy dress - The splendour of humanity! - - - - -SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER’S BOY - - - Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!” - Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): - - “O king of realms of endless joy, - My own, my golden grocer’s boy, - - I am a princess forced to dwell - Within a lonely kitchen cell, - - While you go dashing through the land - With loveliness on every hand. - - Your whistle strikes my eager ears - Like music of the choiring spheres. - - The mighty earth grows faint and reels - Beneath your thundering wagon wheels. - - How keenly, perilously sweet - To cling upon that swaying seat! - - How happy she who by your side - May share the splendours of that ride! - - Ah, if you will not take my hand - And bear me off across the land, - - Then, traveller from Arcady, - Remain awhile and comfort me. - - What other maiden can you find - So young and delicate and kind?” - - Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!” - Her soul spoke thus (I know it did). - - - - -WEALTH - -(For Aline) - - - From what old ballad, or from what rich frame - Did you descend to glorify the earth? - Was it from Chaucer’s singing book you came? - Or did Watteau’s small brushes give you birth? - - Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand - Could Raphael or Leonardo trace. - Nor could the poets know in Fairyland - The changing wonder of your lyric face. - - I would possess a host of lovely things, - But I am poor and such joys may not be. - So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings - Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me. - - - - -MARTIN - - - When I am tired of earnest men, - Intense and keen and sharp and clever, - Pursuing fame with brush or pen, - Or counting metal disks forever, - Then from the halls of Shadowland, - Beyond the trackless purple sea, - Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand - Beside my desk and talk to me. - - Still on his delicate pale face - A quizzical thin smile is showing, - His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, - His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. - He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, - A suit to match his soft grey hair, - A rakish stick, a knowing hat, - A manner blithe and debonair. - - How good that he who always knew - That being lovely was a duty, - Should have gold halls to wander through - And should himself inhabit beauty. - How like his old unselfish way - To leave those halls of splendid mirth - And comfort those condemned to stay - Upon the dull and sombre earth. - - Some people ask: “What cruel chance - Made Martin’s life so sad a story?” - Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, - And wore an overcoat of glory. - A fleck of sunlight in the street, - A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, - Such visions made each moment sweet - For this receptive ancient child. - - Because it was old Martin’s lot - To be, not make, a decoration, - Shall we then scorn him, having not - His genius of appreciation? - Rich joy and love he got and gave; - His heart was merry as his dress; - Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave - Who did not gain, but was, success! - - - - -THE APARTMENT HOUSE - - - Severe against the pleasant arc of sky - The great stone box is cruelly displayed. - The street becomes more dreary from its shade, - And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. - Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, - Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade. - How worse than folly is their labour made - Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high! - - Yet, as I look, I see a woman’s face - Gleam from a window far above the street. - This is a house of homes, a sacred place, - By human passion made divinely sweet. - How all the building thrills with sudden grace - Beneath the magic of Love’s golden feet! - - - - -AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR - -(For Aline) - - - Now by what whim of wanton chance - Do radiant eyes know sombre days? - And feet that shod in light should dance - Walk weary and laborious ways? - - But rays from Heaven, white and whole, - May penetrate the gloom of earth; - And tears but nourish, in your soul, - The glory of celestial mirth. - - The darts of toil and sorrow, sent - Against your peaceful beauty, are - As foolish and as impotent - As winds that blow against a star. - - - - -ST. LAURENCE - - - Within the broken Vatican - The murdered Pope is lying dead. - The soldiers of Valerian - Their evil hands are wet and red. - - Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits, - His cassock is his only mail. - The troops of Hell have burst the gates, - But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail. - - They have encompassed him with steel, - They spit upon his gentle face, - He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal - The Church’s hidden treasure-place. - - Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, - Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee! - Since thou hast fought the goodly fight - A martyr’s death is fixed for thee. - - St. Laurence, pray for us to bear - The faith which glorifies thy name. - St. Laurence, pray for us to share - The wounds of Love’s consuming flame. - - - - -TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED HIMSELF - - - When you had played with life a space - And made it drink and lust and sing, - You flung it back into God’s face - And thought you did a noble thing. - “Lo, I have lived and loved,” you said, - “And sung to fools too dull to hear me. - Now for a cool and grassy bed - With violets in blossom near me.” - - Well, rest is good for weary feet, - Although they ran for no great prize; - And violets are very sweet, - Although their roots are in your eyes. - But hark to what the earthworms say - Who share with you your muddy haven: - “The fight was on--you ran away. - You are a coward and a craven. - - “The rug is ruined where you bled; - It was a dirty way to die! - To put a bullet through your head - And make a silly woman cry! - You could not vex the merry stars - Nor make them heed you, dead or living. - Not all your puny anger mars - God’s irresistible forgiving. - - “Yes, God forgives and men forget, - And you’re forgiven and forgotten. - You might be gaily sinning yet - And quick and fresh instead of rotten. - And when you think of love and fame - And all that might have come to pass, - Then don’t you feel a little shame? - And don’t you think you were an ass?” - - - - -MEMORIAL DAY - -“Dulce et decorum est” - - - The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, - But not of war it sings to-day. - The road is rhythmic with the feet - Of men-at-arms who come to pray. - - The roses blossom white and red - On tombs where weary soldiers lie; - Flags wave above the honoured dead - And martial music cleaves the sky. - - Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, - They kept the faith and fought the fight. - Through flying lead and crimson steel - They plunged for Freedom and the Right. - - May we, their grateful children, learn - Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, - Who went through fire and death to earn - At last the accolade of God. - - In shining rank on rank arrayed - They march, the legions of the Lord; - He is their Captain unafraid, - The Prince of Peace ... Who brought a sword. - - - - -THE ROSARY - - - Not on the lute, or harp of many strings - Shall all men praise the Master of all song. - Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long; - And skilled must be the laureates of kings. - Silent, O lips that utter foolish things! - Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong! - How from your toil shall issue, white and strong, - Music like that God’s chosen poet sings? - - There is one harp that any hand can play, - And from its strings what harmonies arise! - There is one song that any mouth can say,-- - A song that lingers when all singing dies. - When on their beads our Mother’s children pray, - Immortal music charms the grateful skies. - - - - -VISION - -(For Aline) - - - Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful faces - Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream, - Yet did he seem - Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places. - - I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, - Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, - Yet have I seen - All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden. - - - - -TO CERTAIN POETS - - - Now is the rhymer’s honest trade - A thing for scornful laughter made. - - The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s disdain, - These are the burden of our pain. - - Because of you did this befall, - You brought this shame upon us all. - - You little poets mincing there - With women’s hearts and women’s hair! - - How sick Dan Chaucer’s ghost must be - To hear you lisp of “Poesie”! - - A heavy-handed blow, I think, - Would make your veins drip scented ink. - - You strut and smirk your little while - So mildly, delicately vile! - - Your tiny voices mock God’s wrath, - You snails that crawl along His path! - - Why, what has God or man to do - With wet, amorphous things like you? - - This thing alone you have achieved: - Because of you, it is believed - - That all who earn their bread by rhyme - Are like yourselves, exuding slime. - - Oh, cease to write, for very shame, - Ere all men spit upon our name! - - Take up your needles, drop your pen, - And leave the poet’s craft to men! - - - - -LOVE’S LANTERN - -(For Aline) - - - Because the road was steep and long - And through the dark and lonely land, - God set upon my lips a song - And put a lantern in my hand. - - Through miles on weary miles of night - That stretch relentless in my way - My lantern burns serene and white, - An unexhausted cup of day. - - O golden lights and lights like wine, - How dim your boasted splendours are. - Behold this little lamp of mine; - It is more starlike than a star! - - - - -ST. ALEXIS - -Patron of Beggars - - - We who beg for bread as we daily tread - Country lane and city street, - Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway - To the saint with the vagrant feet. - Our altar light is a buttercup bright, - And our shrine is a bank of sod, - But still we share St. Alexis’ care, - The Vagabond of God. - - They gave him a home in purple Rome - And a princess for his bride, - But he rowed away on his wedding day - Down the Tiber’s rushing tide. - And he came to land on the Asian strand - Where the heathen people dwell; - As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed - And he saved their souls from hell. - - Bowed with years and pain he came back again - To his father’s dwelling place. - There was none to see who this tramp might be, - For they knew not his bearded face. - But his father said, “Give him drink and bread - And a couch underneath the stair.” - So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. - But he might not linger there. - - For when night came down on the seven-hilled town, - And the emperor hurried in, - Saying, “Lo, I hear that a saint is near - Who will cleanse us of our sin,” - Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain, - For his soul had fled afar, - From his fleshly home he had gone to roam - Where the gold-paved highways are. - - We who beg for bread as we daily tread - Country lane and city street, - Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway - To the saint with the vagrant feet. - Our altar light is a buttercup bright, - And our shrine is a bank of sod, - But still we share St. Alexis’ care, - The Vagabond of God! - - - - -FOLLY - -(For A. K. K.) - - - What distant mountains thrill and glow - Beneath our Lady Folly’s tread? - Why has she left us, wise in woe, - Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? - We cannot love or dream or sing, - We are too cynical to pray, - There is no joy in anything - Since Lady Folly went away. - - Many a knight and gentle maid, - Whose glory shines from years gone by, - Through ignorance was unafraid - And as a fool knew how to die. - Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne - And broke the ranks of Hell with her, - And Folly’s smile shone brightly on - Christ’s plaything, Brother Juniper. - - Our minds are troubled and defiled - By study in a weary school. - O for the folly of the child! - The ready courage of the fool! - Lord, crush our knowledge utterly - And make us humble, simple men; - And cleansed of wisdom, let us see - Our Lady Folly’s face again. - - - - -MADNESS - -(For Sara Teasdale) - - - The lonely farm, the crowded street, - The palace and the slum, - Give welcome to my silent feet - As, bearing gifts, I come. - - Last night a beggar crouched alone, - A ragged helpless thing; - I set him on a moonbeam throne-- - To-day he is a king. - - Last night a king in orb and crown - Held court with splendid cheer; - To-day he tears his purple gown - And moans and shrieks in fear. - - Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, - Not land, nor sky, nor sea, - Nor love’s artillery of tears - Can keep mine own from me. - - Serene, unchanging, ever fair, - I smile with secret mirth - And in a net of mine own hair - I swing the captive earth. - - - - -POETS - - - Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells - That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. - Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells - Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. - - Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath - Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. - They shall not live who have not tasted death. - They only sing who are struck dumb by God. - - - - -CITIZEN OF THE WORLD - - - No longer of Him be it said, - “He hath no place to lay His head.” - - In every land a constant lamp - Flames by His small and mighty camp. - - There is no strange and distant place - That is not gladdened by His face. - - And every nation kneels to hail - The Splendour shining through Its veil. - - Cloistered beside the shouting street, - Silent, He calls me to His feet. - - Imprisoned for His love of me, - He makes my spirit greatly free. - - And through my lips that uttered sin - The King of Glory enters in. - - - - -TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE WHO DIED IN THE SPRING - -(For Kenton) - - - An iron hand has stilled the throats - That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee - And dammed the flood of silver notes - That drenched the world in melody. - The blosmy apple boughs are yearning - For their wild choristers’ returning, - But no swift wings flash through the tree. - - Ye that were glad and fleet and strong, - Shall Silence take you in her net? - And shall Death quell that radiant song - Whose echo thrills the meadow yet? - Burst the frail web about you clinging - And charm Death’s cruel heart with singing - Till with strange tears his eyes are wet. - - The scented morning of the year - Is old and stale now ye are gone. - No friendly songs the children hear - Among the bushes on the lawn. - When babies wander out a-Maying - Will ye, their bards, afar be straying? - Unhymned by you, what is the dawn? - - Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die. - Above the stars is set your nest. - Through Heaven’s fields ye sing and fly - And in the trees of Heaven rest. - And little children in their dreaming - Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming - And smile, by your clear music blest. - - - - -THE FOURTH SHEPHERD - -(For Thomas Walsh) - - -I - - On nights like this the huddled sheep - Are like white clouds upon the grass, - And merry herdsmen guard their sleep, - And chat and watch the big stars pass. - - It is a pleasant thing to lie - Upon the meadow on the hill - With kindly fellowship near by - Of sheep and men of gentle will. - - I lean upon my broken crook - And dream of sheep and grass and men-- - O shameful eyes that cannot look - On any honest thing again! - - On bloody feet I clambered down - And fled the wages of my sin, - I am the leavings of the town, - And meanly serve its meanest inn. - - I tramp the courtyard stones in grief, - While sleep takes man and beast to her. - And every cloud is calling “Thief!” - And every star calls “Murderer!” - - The hand of God is sure and strong, - Nor shall a man forever flee - The bitter punishment of wrong. - The wrath of God is over me! - - With ashen bread and wine of tears - Shall I be solaced in my pain. - I wear through black and endless years - Upon my brow the mark of Cain. - - Poor vagabond, so old and mild, - Will they not keep him for a night? - And She, a woman great with child, - So frail and pitiful and white. - - Good people, since the tavern door - Is shut to you, come here instead. - See, I have cleansed my stable floor - And piled fresh hay to make a bed. - - Here is some milk and oaten cake. - Lie down and sleep and rest you fair, - Nor fear, O simple folk, to take - The bounty of a child of care. - - On nights like this the huddled sheep-- - I never saw a night so fair. - How huge the sky is, and how deep! - And how the planets flash and glare! - - At dawn beside my drowsy flock - What wingéd music I have heard! - But now the clouds with singing rock - As if the sky were turning bird. - - O blinding Light, O blinding Light! - Burn through my heart with sweetest pain. - O flaming Song, most loudly bright, - Consume away my deadly stain! - - The stable glows against the sky, - And who are these that throng the way? - My three old comrades hasten by - And shining angels kneel and pray. - - The door swings wide--I cannot go-- - I must and yet I dare not see. - Lord, who am I that I should know-- - Lord, God, be merciful to me! - - O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece - Of new-washed sheep on April sod! - O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace, - O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God! - - - - -EASTER - - - The air is like a butterfly - With frail blue wings. - The happy earth looks at the sky - And sings. - - - - -MOUNT HOUVENKOPF - - - Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned, - And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. - The thunder roars but cannot break his rest - And from his rugged face the tempests bound. - He does not heed the angry lightning’s wound, - The raging blizzard is his harmless guest, - And human life is but a passing jest - To him who sees Time spin the years around. - - But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find - High vantage-points and view him from afar. - How low he seems to the ascended mind, - How brief he seems where all things endless are; - This little playmate of the mighty wind, - This young companion of an ancient star. - - - - -THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT - - - Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track - I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. - I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute - And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. - - I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; - That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. - I know this house isn’t haunted, and I wish it were, I do; - For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. - - This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, - And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. - It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and - tied; - But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. - - If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid - I’d put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. - I’d buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be - And I’d find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. - - Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, - Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. - But there’s nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone - For the lack of something within it that it has never known. - - But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has - sheltered life, - That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, - A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and held up his stumbling feet, - Is the saddest sight, when it’s left alone, that ever your eyes could - meet. - - So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track - I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, - Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen - apart, - For I can’t help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken - heart. - - - - -DAVE LILLY - - - There’s a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, - But there’s nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. - I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, - And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen, or so. - - There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, - And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. - He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. - And when he didn’t go fishing he’d sit in the tavern and drink. - - Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; - They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such. - But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish; - He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish. - - The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown - And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat - down. - I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white - And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night. - - And after I’d been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel - The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. - And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land - By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand. - - I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; - There wasn’t a sign of a fisherman; there wasn’t a sign of a trout. - But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak - And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke. - - It’s fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; - And there’s nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. - But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set - I know that it’s full of ghostly trout for Lilly’s ghost to get. - - I guess I’ll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye - And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly’s ghost went by. - I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave - And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave. - - - - -ALARM CLOCKS - - - When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm - Across green fields and yellow hills of hay - The little twittering birds laugh in his way - And poise triumphant on his shining arm. - He bears a sword of flame but not to harm - The wakened life that feels his quickening sway - And barnyard voices shrilling “It is day!” - Take by his grace a new and alien charm. - - But in the city, like a wounded thing - That limps to cover from the angry chase, - He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, - And wanly mock his young and shameful face; - And tiny gongs with cruel fervour ring - In many a high and dreary sleeping place. - - - - -WAVERLEY - -1814–1914 - - - When on a novel’s newly printed page - We find a maudlin eulogy of sin, - And read of ways that harlots wander in, - And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage; - Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage, - Taps on her desk and bids the class begin - To con the problems that have always been - Perplexed mankind’s unhappy heritage; - - Then in what robes of honour habited - The laureled wizard of the North appears! - Who raised Prince Charlie’s cohorts from the dead, - Made Rose’s mirth and Flora’s noble tears, - And formed that shining legion at whose head - Rides Waverley, triumphant o’er the years! - - - - -EARLY POEMS - - - - -IN A BOOK-SHOP - - - All day I serve among the volumes telling - Old tales of love and war and high romance; - Good company, God wot, is in them dwelling, - Brave knights who dared to scorn untoward chance. - - King Arthur--Sidney--Copperfield--the daring - And friendly souls of Meredith’s bright page-- - The Pilgrim on his darksome journey faring, - And Shakespeare’s heroes, great in love and rage. - - Fair ladies, too--here Beatricè smiling - Through hell leads Dante to the happy stars; - And Heloise, the cruel guards beguiling, - With Abelard makes mock of convent bars. - - Yet when night comes I leave these folks with pleasure - To open Love’s great summer-scented tome - Within whose pages--precious beyond measure-- - My own White Flower Lady hath her home. - - - - -SLENDER YOUR HANDS - - - Slender your hands and soft and white - As petals of moon-kissed roses; - Yet the grasp of your fingers slight - My passionate heart encloses. - - Innocent eyes like delicate spheres - That are born when day is dying; - Yet the wisdom of all the years - Is in their lovelight lying. - - - - -SLEEP SONG - - - The Lady World - Is sleeping on her white and cloudy bed. - Like petals furled - Her eyelids close. Beside her dream-filled head - Her lover stands in silver cloak and shoon, - The faithful Moon. - - So Love, my Love, - Sleep on, my Love, my Life, be not afraid. - The Moon above - Shall guard the World, and I my little maid. - Your life, your love, your dreams are mine to keep, - So sleep, so sleep. - - - - -WHITE BIRD OF LOVE - - - Little white bird of the summer sky, - Silver against the golden sun, - Over the green of the hills you fly, - You and the sweet, wild air are one. - - Glorious sights are in that far place - Reached by your daisy-petal wing, - Rose-coloured meteors dive through space, - Stars made of molten music sing. - - Still, though your quivering eager flight - Reaches the groves by Heaven town, - Where all the angels cry out, “Alight! - Stop, little bird, come down, come down!” - - Careless you speed over fields of stars, - Darting through Heaven swift and free; - Nothing your arrowy passage bars - Back to the earth and back to me. - - Here in the orchard of dream-fruit fair - Out of my dreams is built your nest. - Blossoming dreams all the branches bear, - Fit for my silver dream-bird’s rest. - - Here, since they love you, the young stars shine, - Through the white petals come their beams. - Little white love-laden bird of mine, - Let them shine on you through my dreams. - - - - -TRANSFIGURATION - - - If it should be my task, I being God, - From whirling atoms to evolve your mate, - With hands omnipotent I should create - A great-souled hero, with the starlight shod. - The subject worlds should tremble at his nod - And all the angel host upon him wait, - Yet he should leave his pomp and splendid state - And kneel to kiss the ground whereon you trod. - - But God, who like a little child is wise, - Made me, a common thing of earthly clay; - Then bade me go and see within your eyes - The flame of love that burns more bright than day, - And as I looked I knew with wild surprise - I was transformed--your heart in my heart lay. - - - - -BALLADE OF MY LADY’S BEAUTY - - - Squire Adam had two wives, they say, - Two wives had he, for his delight, - He kissed and clypt them all the day - And clypt and kissed them all the night. - Now Eve like ocean foam was white - And Lilith roses dipped in wine, - But though they were a goodly sight - No lady is so fair as mine. - - To Venus some folk tribute pay - And Queen of Beauty she is hight, - And Sainte Marie the world doth sway - In cerule napery bedight. - My wonderment these twain invite, - Their comeliness it is divine, - And yet I say in their despite, - No lady is so fair as mine. - - Dame Helen caused a grievous fray, - For love of her brave men did fight, - The eyes of her made sages fey - And put their hearts in woful plight. - To her no rhymes will I indite, - For her no garlands will I twine, - Though she be made of flowers and light - No lady is so fair as mine. - -L’ENVOI - - Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might - Who on Olympus dost recline, - Do I not tell the truth aright? - No lady is so fair as mine. - - - - -FOR A BIRTHDAY - - - April with her violets, - May and June with roses, - Young July with all her flowers, crimson, gold and white, - Each in place her tribute sets, - Each her wreath composes, - Making glad the roadway for the Lady of Delight. - - Birds with many colours gay, - Through the branches flitting, - Sing, to greet my Lady Love, a lusty welcome song. - Even bees make holiday, - Hive and honey quitting, - Tremulous and jubilant they join the eager throng. - - Now the road is flower-paved; - Timid fawns are peering - From their pleasant vantage in the roadside’s leafy green. - All the world in sunlight laved, - Knows the hour is nearing - That shall bring the golden presence of the well-loved Queen. - - Hark! at last the silver trill - Of a lute is sounding-- - Happy August, purple-clad, appears with all her train. - Sudden sweet the branches fill; - Every heart is bounding; - August comes, the kindly nurse of her who is to reign! - - And now, with proud and valiant gait, - An hundred centaurs come. - Pan rides the foremost one in state; - The waiting crowd grows dumb. - Each centaur wears a jewelled thong - And harness bright of sheen; - They draw through surging floods of song - The carriage of the Queen! - - “Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Queen in her moonstone car! - Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Lady whose slaves we are! - We of the meadows, the rocks and the hills, - Dwellers in oceans and rivers and rills, - Beasts of the forests and birds of the air, - Linnet and butterfly, lion and bear, - Daisy and daffodill, spruce-tree and fir, - Yield to our Queen and do homage to her! - Hail! Hail! Hail! we welcome thy royal sway! - Hail! Hail! Hail! O Queen, on this festal day!” - - So all the world kneels down to you, - And all things are your own; - Now let a humble rhymer sue - Before your crystal throne. - Fair Queen, at your rose-petal feet - Bid me to live and die! - Not all your world of lovers, Sweet, - Can love so much as I. - - -[Illustration: - - JOYCE KILMER, AGE 21 - -TAKEN IN ACADEMIC GOWN, IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS GRADUATION, AND DIRECTLY -PRECEDING HIS MARRIAGE] - - - - -WAYFARERS - - - Underneath the orchard trees lies a gypsy sleeping, - Tattered cloak and swarthy face and shaggy moonlit hair; - One brown hand his crazy fiddle in its grasp is keeping, - Through the Land of Dreams he strolls and sings his love songs there. - - Up above the apple blossoms where the stars are shining, - Free and careless wandering among the clouds he goes, - Singing of his lady-love and for her pleasure twining - Wreaths of Heaven flowers, violet and golden rose. - - In his sleep he stirs, and wakes to find his love beside him, - Pours his load of Dreamland blooms before her silver feet, - Takes her in his arms and as her soft brown tresses hide him - Both together fare to Dreamland up the star-paved street. - - - - -PRINCESS BALLADE - - - Never a horn sounds in Sherwood to-night, - Friar Tuck’s drinking Olympian ale, - Little John’s wandered away from our sight, - Robin Hood’s bow hangs unused on its nail. - Even the moon has grown weary and pale - Sick for the glint of Maid Marian’s hair, - But there is one joy on mountain and dale, - Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! - - Saints have attacked them with sacredest might, - They could not shatter their gossamer mail; - Steam-driven engines can never affright - Fairies who dance in their spark-sprinkled trail. - Still for a warning the sad Banshees wail, - Still are the Leprechauns ready to bear - Purses of gold to their captors for bail; - Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! - - Oberon, king of the realms of delight, - May your domain over us never fail. - Mab, as a rainbow-hued butterfly bright, - Yours is the glory that age cannot stale. - When we are planted down under the shale, - Fairy-folk, drop a few daffodils there, - Comfort our souls in the Stygian vale; - Fairies abound all the time, everywhere. - -L’ENVOI - - White Flower Princess, though sophisters rail, - Let us be glad in faith that we share. - None shall the Good People safely assail; - Fairies abound all the time, everywhere! - - - - -LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY - - - Night is over; through the clover globes of crystal shine; - Birds are calling; sunlight falling on the wet green vine. - Little wings must folded lie, little lips be still - While the sun is in the sky, over Fairy Hill. - Sleep, sleep, sleep, - Baby with buttercup hair, - Golden rays - Into the violet creep. - Dream, dream deep; - Dream of the night-revels fair. - Daylight stays; - Sleep, little fairy child, sleep. - - Rest in daytime; night is playtime, all good fairies know. - Under sighing grasses lying, off to slumber go. - Night will come with stars agleam, lilies in her hand, - Calling you from Hills of Dream back to Fairyland. - Sleep, sleep, sleep, - Baby with buttercup hair; - Golden rays - Into the violet creep. - Dream, dream deep; - Dream of the night-revels fair. - Daylight stays; - Sleep, little fairy child, sleep. - - - - -A DEAD POET - - - Fair Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed - To take that weary vagrant to thy breast. - Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one need-- - Rest. - - - - -THE MAD FIDDLER - - - I sleep beneath a bracken sheet - In sunlight or in rain, - The road dust burns my naked feet, - The sunrays sear my brain; - But children love my fiddle’s sound - And if a lad be straying, - His mother knows he may be found - Where old Mad Larry’s playing. - - O fiddle, let us follow, follow, - Till we see my Eileen’s face, - Through the moonlight like a swallow - Off she flew to some far place. - - O, did you ever love a lass? - I loved a lass one day, - And she would lie upon the grass - And sing while I would play. - She was a cruel, lovely thing, - Nor heart nor soul have I, - For Eileen took them that soft spring - When she flew to the sky. - - So fiddle, let us follow, follow, - Till we see my Eileen’s face, - Through the moonlight like a swallow - Off she flew to some far place. - - - - -THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE - - - The pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared, - The grass is dead. - No soft green shoot, by rain and sunshine reared, - Lifts up its head. - - I think the grass that made the park so gay - In early spring - Now decks the lawns of Heaven where babies play - And dance and sing. - - And poor old vagabonds who now have left - The dusty street, - Find fields of which they were in life bereft, - Beneath their feet. - - - - -SAID THE ROSE - - - No flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine; - When he bends down to kiss my heart, my petals try to twine - About his lips to hold them fast. He is so very fair, - My lover with the pale, sad face and forest-fragrant hair. - - I think it is a pleasant place, this garden where I grow, - With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses in a row. - There is no toil nor worry here, nor clatter of the street, - And here each night my lover comes, pale, sad and very sweet. - - He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white; - I am his love, his only love, his Flower of Delight; - And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around - My lover kneels the whole night through beside me on the ground. - - How can I miss the sunshine-laden breezes of the south - When all my heart is burning with the kisses of his mouth? - How can I miss the coming of the comfort-bringing rain - When his hot tears are filling me with heaven-sweet love-pain? - - There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love, - He sings this bitter, bitter song from his brown nest above: - “Was ever yet a mortal man who wed a flower wife? - He loves the girl down in your roots whose dead breast gives you life.” - - O little bird, O jealous bird, fly off and cease your chatter! - My lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter? - In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals steep; - I am his love, his only love, I have his heart to keep. - - - - -METAMORPHOSIS - - - He was an evil thing to see-- - Of joy his mouth was desolate; - His body was a stunted tree, - His eyes were pools of lust and hate. - - Now silverly the linnet sings - On leaves that from his temples start, - And gay the yellow crocus springs - From the rich clod that was his heart. - - - - -FOR A CHILD - - - His mind has neither need nor power to know - The foolish things that men call right and wrong. - For him the streams of pleasant love-wind flow, - For him the mystic, sleep-compelling song. - Through love he rules his love-made universe, - And sees with eyes by ignorance made keen - The fauns and elves whom older eyes disperse, - Great Pan and all the fairies with their queen. - King gods, I pray, bestow on him this dole, - Not wisdom, wealth, nor mighty deeds to do, - But let him keep his happy pagan soul, - The poet-vision, simple, free and true, - To hunt the rainbow-gold and phantom lights, - And meet with dryads on the wooded heights. - - - - -THE CLOUDED SUN - -(To A. S.) - - - It is not good for poets to grow old, - For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills; - And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills, - Call back their faithful servants to the fold - Before Age makes them passionless and cold. - - Therefore it is that no more sorry thing - Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass - Than some grey head through which no longer pass - Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring - To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing. - - Far happier he, who, young and full of pride - And radiant with the glory of the sun, - Leaves earth before his singing time is done. - All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, - His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died. - - Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells - The world may see his young impetuous face - Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace; - While memory no piteous story tells - Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells. - - * * * * * - - Brother and Master, we are wed with woe. - Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers - About the head of us, thy mournful lovers. - Uncomforted and sick with pain we go, - Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow. - - The London lights flare on the chattering street, - Young men and maidens love and dance and die; - Wine flows, and the perfumes float up to the sky. - Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet, - Now thou art still--mouth, hands and weary feet. - - O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed - The smile of those she kisses at their birth, - Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth. - Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste - Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased. - - There is no harsher tragedy than this-- - That thou, who feltest as no man before - Scent, colour, taste and sound and didst outpour - For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss - Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss. - - Brother and Master, if our love could free - Thy flameborne spirit from its leaden chain, - Thou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain, - Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be, - And strong with joy as is the boundless sea. - - Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay - These roses, red as lips that thou hast sung, - To mingle with the green and fragrant bay, - And cypress wreaths above thy head are hung. - We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away. - - - - -THE POET’S EPITAPH - - - Dreams fade with morning light; - Never a morn for thee, - Dreamer of dreams, good-night. - - Over our earthly sight - Shadows of woe must be; - Dreams fade with morning light. - - Soldiers awake to fight-- - Thou art from strife set free, - Dreamer of dreams, good-night. - - Day breaketh, cruel, white, - Lovely the forms that flee; - Dreams fade with morning light. - - Thine is the sure delight, - Sleep-visions still to see, - Dreamer of dreams, good-night. - - Pity us from thy height, - Dawn-haunted slaves are we; - Dreams fade with morning light, - Dreamer of dreams, good-night. - - - - -BEAUTY’S HAIR - - - A gleam of light across the night, - I know that you are there; - The heavens show the lovely glow - Of your transcendent hair, - Your luminous, miraculous, and morning-coloured hair. - - I’ll take my silver javelin - And point it with a star, - For I have vowed to climb a cloud - And reach to where you are. - My javelin’s barb shall pierce your hair - And pin it to the sky, - And I will run to the island sun - Where captive you will lie, - And then I shall dare to touch your hair, - To steal a tress of your magic hair, - And bring to the world a tress of hair - And win the world thereby. - - Or shall I put on a green-sea cloak - With sunset laces trimmed, - And shine so gay that the dawn will say - That her radiance is dimmed? - There never was a lover could shine more fair - Than I in my cloak will shine; - And all for the sake of your merry hair, - Your whimsical, perilous, golden hair, - Your lovely, terrible, golden hair, - More sweet than love or wine. - - A twisted bit of silver - Fell down and bruised my face. - What was it broke my broidered cloak - And tore the sunset lace? - I must be clad in sorrow - Because you are so gay, - And close my eyes if I would see - A whiter light than day. - So lofty is your golden hair, - I cannot climb to touch your hair, - I must kneel down to find your hair - Upon the trampled way. - - - - -THE WAY OF LOVE - -(An Old Legend) - - - When darkness hovers over earth - And day gives place to night, - Then lovers see the Milky Way - Gleam mystically bright, - And calling it the Way of Love - They hail it with delight. - - She was a lady wondrous fair, - A right brave lover he, - And sooth they suffered grievous pain - And sorrowed mightily, - For they were parted during life - By leagues of land and sea. - - She died. Then Death came to the man. - He met him joyfully, - And said, “Thou Angel Death, well met! - Quick, do thy will with me, - That I may haste to greet my love - In Heaven’s company.” - - Now on one side of Heaven he dwelt - And on the other, she; - And broad between them stretched sheer space - Whereon no way might be, - The empty, yawning, awful depth, - Unplumbed infinity. - - The deathless spheric melody - Came gently to his ear, - And dulcet notes, the harmonies - Of Seraphs chanting near. - He heeded not for listening - His lady’s voice to hear. - - The Saints and Martyrs round him ranged - A goodly company, - The Virgin, robed in radiance, - The Holy Trinity. - He heeded not, but strained his eyes - His lady’s face to see. - - At last from far across the void - Her voice came, faint and sweet. - The bright-hued walls of Paradise - Did the glad sound repeat; - The distant stars on which she stood - Shone bright beneath her feet. - - “Dear Love,” she said, “Oh, come to me! - I cannot see your face. - O will not Lord Christ grant to us - To cross this sea of space?” - Then thrilled his heart with Love’s own might. - He answered, by Love’s grace. - - “The world is wide, and Heaven is wide, - From me to thee is far, - Alas! across Infinity - No passageways there are. - Sweetheart, I’ll make my way to thee, - I’ll build it, star by star!” - - Through all the curving vault of sky - His lusty blows rang out. - He smote the jewel-studded walls - And with a mighty shout - He tore the gleaming masonry - And posts that stood about. - - He strove to build a massive bridge - That should the chasm span. - With heart upheld by hope and love - His great task he began, - And toiled and laboured doughtily - To work his God-like plan. - - He took the heavy beams of gold - That round him he did see; - The beryl, jacinth, sardius, - That shone so brilliantly, - And no fair jewel would he spare - So zealously worked he. - - He stole the gorgeous tinted stuffs - Whereof are sunsets made, - And his rude, grasping, eager hands - On little stars he laid; - To rob God’s sacred treasure-house - He was no whit afraid. - - And so for centuries he worked. - Across the void at last - A bridge of precious mold did stand - Completed, strong and fast. - So now the faithful lovers met - And all their woe was past. - - But soon a shining angel guard - Sped to the throne of gold - And said, “Lord, see yon new-made bridge, - A mortal, overbold, - Has built it, scorning thy desire!” - Straightway the tale he told. - - Then said: “Now, Master, Thou mayst see - The thing that has been wrought. - Speak, then, the word, stretch forth Thine hand - That with the speed of thought - This poor presumptuous work may fall - And crumble into naught.” - - God looked upon the angel then - And on the bridge below. - Then with His smile of majesty - He said: “Let all things know, - This bridge, which has by Love been built, - I will not overthrow.” - - When darkness hovers over earth - And day gives place to night, - Then lovers see the Milky Way - Gleam mystically bright, - And calling it the Way of Love, - They hail it with delight. - - - - -CHEVELY CROSSING - - - There two roads cross by Chevely town - A man is lying dead. - The rumbling wains of scented hay - Roll over his fair head; - A stake is driven through his heart, - For his own blood he shed. - - * * * * * - - Among the pleasant flower-stars - By God’s own garden gate, - A little maid fresh come from earth - One summer night did wait; - Her poppy mouth dropped down with fear, - With fear her eyes were great. - - The angels saw her sinless face, - The gate was opened wide. - She only shook her dawn-crowned head - And would not come inside. - She was alone, and so afraid-- - She hid her face and cried. - - Her tears dropped down like sun-filled rain - Through stars and starless space, - Until at last in Chevely town - Where in a moonlit place - Her lover knelt upon her grave, - They fell upon his face. - - Said he, “My love, my only love, - My Elena, my Sweet! - Through what wild ways of mystery - Have strayed your little feet? - Alone, alone this lonely night - Where only spirits meet! - - “It is not my bleak desert life - That turns my heart to lead, - Not for my empty arms I mourn, - Nor for my loveless bed; - But that you wander forth alone - On heights I may not tread. - - “If I could stand beside you now, - Sin-burdened though I be, - I’d bear you through the trackless ways - From fear and danger free, - Not God himself could daunt the strong - Undying love of me! - - “Though Heaven is a pleasant place, - What joy for you is there? - Who tread the jewelled streets alone - Without my heart to share - Each throb of your heart, and my arm - Around you, O my Fair! - - “I hear your sobbing in the wind, - And in the summer rain - I feel your tears. My heart is pierced - With your sad, lonely pain. - My Love! My only Love! I come! - You shall not call in vain!” - - * * * * * - - Where two roads cross by Chevely town - A man is lying dead. - The rumbling wains of scented hay - Roll over his fair head; - A stake is driven through his heart, - For his own blood he shed. - - - - -THE OTHER LOVER - - - I’m home from off the stormy sea, - And down the street - The folk come out to welcome me - On eager feet. - O neighbours, God be with you all, - But for my true love I must call; - She lingers in her father’s hall - So shy, so sweet! - - Here is a string of milky pearls - For her to wear, - An amber comb to match the curls - Of her bright hair. - O neighbours, do not crowd me so! - Stand by! stand by! for I must go - To put on my love’s hand of snow - This gold ring fair. - - Good dame, why do you block the way - And shake your head? - Must all the things you have to say - Just now be said? - O neighbours, let me pass--but why-- - My God, what makes you women cry? - Come tell me that I too may die! - Is my love dead? - - “Nay, Marjorie’s a living thing, - And fair and strong. - Yet did you wait to give your ring - A year too long. - To seek her love there came the Moon; - Now Marjorie at night and noon - Is chained and sits alone to croon - The Moon’s love-song.” - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling in the Memoir were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original -book; otherwise they were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation -marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left -unbalanced. - -Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs -and outside quotations. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Joyce Kilmer, Volume I (of 2)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0;'>Poems, Essays and Letters in Two Volumes</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Joyce Kilmer</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Robert Cortes Holliday</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 20, 2021 [eBook #65652]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE KILMER, VOLUME I (OF 2) ***</div> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="center larger">Transcriber’s Note</p> - -<p>Larger versions of the illustrations usually may be seen by right-clicking them -and selecting an option to view them separately, or by double-tapping and/or -stretching them.</p> - -<p class="covernote">Cover created by Transcriber -and placed into the Public Domain.</p> -</div> - -<h1><span class="large">JOYCE KILMER</span><br /> - -<span class="subhead">POEMS, ESSAYS<br /> -AND LETTERS<br /> -IN TWO VOLUMES</span> - -<span class="subhead">VOLUME ONE: MEMOIR AND POEMS</span> -</h1> - -<div class="figcenter illowe30" id="i_000"> - <img src="images/i_000.jpg" alt="" /> - <div class="captionr"> - <p class="p0">© <i>Underwood and Underwood</i></p> - </div> - <div class="captionl"> - <p class="in0">JOYCE KILMER, AGE 30<br /> - LAST CIVILIAN PORTRAIT</p> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="center larger"><div class="newpage bbox"><div class="bbox2"> -<p class="xxlarge wspace"><span class="larger">JOYCE KILMER</span></p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="gesperrt">EDITED WITH A MEMOIR</span><br /> -BY ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY</p> - -<p class="p4">VOLUME ONE<br /> -MEMOIR AND POEMS</p> - -<p class="p4 larger vspace">NEW YORK<br /> -GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</p> -</div></div> - -<p class="newpage p4 smaller"> -Copyright, 1914, 1917, 1918<br /> -By George H. Doran Company</p> - -<p class="p4"><span class="smcap">Printed in the United States of America</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4"> -TO THE MEMORY OF<br /> -<span class="large">JOYCE KILMER</span> -</p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">vii</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ACKNOWLEDGMENT">ACKNOWLEDGMENT</h2> -</div> - -<p>Many persons have contributed exceedingly -valuable service to the preparation of these volumes. -Credit has been gratefully acknowledged, wherever -feasible, in the course of the text. To make -anything like a full record, however, of the names -of that remarkable society, the ardent and devoted -friends of Joyce Kilmer, would require a chapter. -Though particular reference should be made in this -place to the invaluable assistance of: Kilmer’s life-long -friend and lawyer, Louis Bevier, Jr.; his especial -friend, Thomas Walsh; and his office associate, -John Bunker.</p> - -<p>Permission has been most cordially granted by -the editors of the following magazines for the reprinting -of the poems from France: <i>Scribner’s -Magazine</i>, <i>Good Housekeeping</i>, <i>The Saturday -Evening Post</i>, <i>America</i>, and <i>The Bookman</i>. Essays -and miscellaneous pieces have been gathered, -with the warm approval of the editors of these publications, -from these sources: <i>The Bookman</i>, <i>The -New York Times Sunday Magazine</i>, <i>The Bellman</i>, -<i>The Catholic World</i>, <i>Poetry: A Magazine of Verse,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">viii</span> -he Smart Set</i>, <i>Munsey’s Magazine</i> and <i>Puck</i>—a -curiously assorted company, highly expressive of -the catholicity of the mind these pages reflect.</p> - -<p>The article on Hilaire Belloc, originally one of -Kilmer’s lectures, was first printed in the American -edition of Belloc’s “Verses.” The early poems have -been chosen from Kilmer’s first book, “A Summer -of Love,” now out of print, rights to which are held -by Mrs. Aline Kilmer. Poems not otherwise credited -have been reprinted from the volumes already -published by George H. Doran Company.</p> - -<p class="sigright b0"> -R. C. H. -</p> - -<p class="p0">New York, 1918.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">ix</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS_VOLUME_ONE">CONTENTS VOLUME ONE</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> -<tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Memoir</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_17">17</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">POEMS FROM FRANCE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Rouge Bouquet</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_105">105</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Peacemaker</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_108">108</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Prayer of a Soldier in France</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_109">109</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">When the Sixty-ninth Comes Back</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_110">110</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mirage du Cantonment</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_113">113</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">POEMS AT HOME</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Wartime Christmas</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_117">117</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Main Street</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_118">118</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Roofs</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_120">120</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Snowman in the Yard</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_122">122</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Blue Valentine</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_124">124</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Houses</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_127">127</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In Memory</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_128">128</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Apology</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_131">131</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Proud Poet</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_133">133</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lionel Johnson</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_137">137</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Father Gerard Hopkins, S.J.</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_138">138</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Gates and Doors</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_139">139</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Robe of Christ</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_142">142</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Singing Girl</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_145">145</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Annunciation</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_146">146</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Roses</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_147">147</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Visitation</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_149">149</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Multiplication</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_150">150</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Thanksgiving</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_152">152</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Thorn</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_153">153</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">x</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Big Top</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_154">154</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mid-ocean in War-time</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_157">157</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Queen Elizabeth Speaks</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_158">158</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In Memory of Rupert Brooke</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_159">159</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The New School</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_160">160</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Easter Week</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_163">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Cathedral of Rheims</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_165">165</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Kings</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_169">169</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The White Ships and the Red</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_170">170</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Twelve-Forty-Five</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_174">174</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pennies</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_178">178</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Trees</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_180">180</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Stars</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_181">181</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Old Poets</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_183">183</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Delicatessen</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_185">185</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Servant Girl and Grocer’s Boy</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_190">190</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Wealth</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_192">192</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Martin</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_193">193</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Apartment House</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_194">194</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">As Winds That Blow Against a Star</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_196">196</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">St. Laurence</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_197">197</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">To a Young Poet Who Killed Himself</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_198">198</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Memorial Day</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_200">200</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Rosary</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_201">201</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Vision</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_202">202</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">To Certain Poets</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_203">203</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Love’s Lantern</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_205">205</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">St. Alexis</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_206">206</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Folly</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_208">208</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Madness</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_210">210</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Poets</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_211">211</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Citizen of the World</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_212">212</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">xi</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_213">213</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Fourth Shepherd</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_215">215</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Easter</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_218">218</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mount Houvenkopf</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_219">219</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The House with Nobody in It</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_220">220</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Dave Lilly</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_223">223</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Alarm Clocks</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_226">226</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Waverley</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_227">227</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdc chap" colspan="2">EARLY POEMS</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In a Book-shop</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_231">231</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Slender Your Hands</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_232">232</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sleep Song</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_233">233</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">White Bird of Love</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_234">234</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Transfiguration</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_236">236</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Ballade of My Lady’s Beauty</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_237">237</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">For a Birthday</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_239">239</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Wayfarers</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_242">242</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Princess Ballade</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_244">244</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lullaby for a Baby Fairy</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_246">246</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Dead Poet</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_248">248</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Mad Fiddler</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_249">249</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Grass in Madison Square</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_251">251</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Said the Rose</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_252">252</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Metamorphosis</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_254">254</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">For a Child</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_255">255</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Clouded Sun (To A. S.)</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_256">256</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Poet’s Epitaph</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_259">259</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Beauty’s Hair</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_260">260</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Way of Love</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_262">262</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Chevely Crossing</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_267">267</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Other Lover</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_270">270</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">xiii</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="loi" summary="Illustrations"> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Joyce Kilmer, Age 30</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_000"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> -</tr> -<tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Fac-simile of autograph manuscript of “The Peacemaker”</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_108">108</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Joyce Kilmer, Age 21</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_240">240</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_17" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MEMOIR">MEMOIR</h2> -</div> - -<p>It is the felicity of these pages that they cannot -be dull. It is their merit, peculiar in such a -memoir, that they cannot be sad. It is their novelty -that they can be restricted in appeal only by the -varieties of the human species. It is their good -fortune that they can be extraordinarily frank. It -is their virtue that they cannot fail to do unmeasurable -good. And it is their luck to abide many days.</p> - -<p>With their subject how could it be otherwise? -They make not a wreath, but a chronicle, and in -their assembled facts tell a bright chapter in the history -of our time. If there is one word which more -than any other should be linked with the name of -this gallant figure now claimed (and rightly) by so -many elements of the nation, that word certainly is -“American.” A character and a career so racy, -typical of all that everybody likes to believe that at -our best we are, can hardly be matched, I think, outside -of stories.</p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p>Joyce Kilmer was reported in the papers as having -said, just before he sailed for France, that he -was “half Irish,” and that was why he belonged with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -the boys of the Sixty-ninth. His birth was not exactly -eloquent of this fact. Though, indeed, he was, -as will appear, a much more ardent Irishman than -many an Irishman born—that is, in the sense of -keenly savouring those things which are fine in the -Irish character, and with characteristic gusto feeling -within himself an affinity with them. Later, in -a letter from France to his wife, he was more explicit -on this point:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>As to the matter of my own blood (you mentioned -this in a previous letter) I did indeed tell a -good friend of mine who edits the book-review page -of a Chicago paper that I was “half Irish.” But I -have never been a mathematician. The point I -wished to make was that a large percentage—which -I have a perfect right to call half—of my ancestry -was Irish. For proof of this, you have only to refer -to the volumes containing the histories of my mother’s -and my father’s families. Of course I am -American, but one cannot be pure American in -blood unless one is an Indian. And I have the good -fortune to be able to claim, largely because of the -wise matrimonial selections of my progenitors on -both sides, Irish blood. And don’t let anyone publish -a statement contrary to this.</p> -</div> - -<p>He also, in a letter from France, quoted with -much relish the remark of Father Francis P. Duffy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -that he was “half German and half human.” -English and Scotch strains made up another half -or three quarters. The English goes straight back -to one Thomas Kilburne, church warden at Wooddilton, -near Newmarket, in Cambridgeshire, who -came to Connecticut in 1638. The “e” was lost -apparently in Massachusetts, and the word became, -as in his mother’s maiden name, Kilburn.</p> - -<p>Soldier blood, too, flowed in his veins—though it -is likely that this fact for the first time occurred to -him, if at all, when his nature rose white-hot to -arms. He was, so to say, a Colonial Dame on both -sides, as members of both his father’s and his mother’s -family fought in the American Revolution; and -members of his father’s family in the French and -Indian wars.</p> - -<p>Alfred Joyce Kilmer (as he was christened) was -born at New Brunswick, New Jersey, December 6, -1886, son of Annie Kilburn and Frederick Kilmer. -Though he seems always to have been, in familiar -address and allusion, called Joyce, the Alfred did -not disappear from his address and signature until -he began, as more or less of a professional writer, -to publish his work, when it went the way of the -Newton in Mr. Tarkington’s name, and the Enoch -in Mr. Bennett’s. Then “Joyce Kilmer” acquired a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span> -fine humorous disdain for what he regarded as the -florid note in literary signatures of three words (or, -worse still to his mind, the A. Joyce kind of thing); -and he enjoyed handing down, with much relish of -the final and judicial character of his utterance, the -opinion that the proper sort of a trademark, so to -say, for success in letters was something short, -pointed, easy to say and to remember, such as Rudyard -Kipling, Mark Twain, O. Henry, Joseph -Conrad, and so on through illustrations carried, at -length, to intentionally infuriating numbers.</p> - -<p>As a small boy, Kilmer is described by those who -knew him then as the “funniest” small boy they -ever saw, by which is meant, apparently, that he was -an odd spectacle. And this, of course, is so altogether -in line with literary tradition that it would -have been odd if he had not been an oddity in the -way of a spectacle. He wore queer clothes, it seems, -ordinary stockings with bicycle breeches, and that -sort of thing. He didn’t altogether fit in somehow, -couldn’t find himself, was somewhat of an outsider -among the juvenile clans; he was required to fight -other boys a good deal; he evidenced a pronounced -inability to comprehend anything at all of arithmetic; -and somewhere between eight and twelve (so -the report goes) he contracted a violent passion for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -a lady, of about thirty-five, who was his teacher at -school; a passion which endured for a considerable -time, and became a hilarious legend among the -youth about him of jocose humour.</p> - -<p>It is told that at “Prep” school, when this goal -seemed rather unlikely of his attainment, he made -up his mind to stand at the head of his class; and -with something like the later Kilmerian exercise of -will he accomplished his purpose.</p> - -<p>Kilmer was graduated from Rutgers College in -1904, and received his A. B. from Columbia in 1906. -His University life seems to have been, in outward -effect, fairly normal. There is no ready evidence -that he “shone” particularly, and none that he failed -to “shine.” He was not deported by the authorities, -and he was not unanimously hailed the idol of his -classmates. He became a member of Delta Upsilon -fraternity: and he was, of course, active in college -journalism. Then as always he appears to have -been zestful in living well, to have counted sufficient -to the day the excellence thereof, and to have been -too warm with life to be calculating in expenditures. -He retained in the years that followed—and it -seems to have been the college memory he retained -most distinctly—a humorous recollection of his consuming -his allowance on an abundance of rich<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span> -viands during the first few days of each month, and -being reduced to the necessity of living precariously -on a meagre ration of crackers and sandwiches -thereafter—until next income day.</p> - -<p>Characteristic of the vehement manner in which -he went after life, as a Sophomore Kilmer became -engaged to Miss Aline Murray, of New Jersey, a -step-daughter of Henry Mills Alden, editor of -<i>Harper’s Magazine</i>. Upon leaving Columbia he -took up the business of making a living in the way -of an elder American intellectual tradition, by -teaching school in a (more or less) rural community. -He returned to New Jersey and began his career as -instructor of Latin at Morristown High School. -So slight a lad he was, even several years after this -time, that it is difficult to picture him in the disciplinary -adventures of the classic figure of this calling. -His problems at Morristown doubtless were -dissimilar to those of his early, Hoosier, prototype. -He married and became a householder. His son, -Kenton, was born. In religion he had been bred an -Episcopalian, and during this period in New Jersey -(it is told) he acted as a lay reader in this church.</p> - -<p>He soon concluded, apparently, that pedagogy -was, so to say, no life for a boy. At the conclusion -of a year’s teaching he tore up the roots he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -planted, and, together with the young lady he had -married, and the son born to them, and with a few -youthful poems in his pocket, he advanced upon the -metropolis, even in the classic way, on the ancient -quest of conscious talent.</p> - -<p>The rapidity and brilliance of Joyce Kilmer’s -success has altogether obscured his very democratic -beginnings. As his initial occupation in New York, -he obtained, by a lucky chance, employment as -editor of a journal for horsemen, though of horses -he had no particular knowledge—to be exact, no -such knowledge whatever. Here finding little to -do, and discovering one day in a desk drawer a -bulky manuscript, he decided—as he was editor—to -edit it. This, apparently, he did with youthful energy. -The little job he mentioned with some satisfaction -to his employer, a fine portly sportsman -with a crimson face and an irascible temper. The -young editor explained that the manuscript evidently -had been written by a man familiar with -horses, but one apparently innocent of the art of -literary composition. “Young man,” bellowed his -employer, “I would have you understand I have -been through the best veterinary college in the -world, and I have been a veterinary myself for over -forty years.” His wife, he added, was his amanuensis,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -and he guessed she knew something about -writing. The editorship came to an abrupt termination.</p> - -<p>Then followed a brief sojourn, at a salary of (I -think) eight dollars a week, as retail salesman in the -book store of Charles Scribner’s Sons, a dignity -which the young littérateur wore with humorous -dignity for exactly two weeks. A distinct mental -impression of him of this time presents him as decidedly -like an Eton boy in general effect, and it seems -that a large white collar and a small-size high hat -should have gone with him to make the picture quite -right. One who met him then felt at once a gracious, -slightly courtly, young presence. He gave -forth an aroma of excellent, gentlemanly manners. -He frequently pronounced, as an indication that he -had not heard you clearly, the word “Pardon?”—with -a slight forward inclination of his head, which, -altogether, was adorable. His smile, never far -away, when it came was winning, charming. It -broke like spring sunshine, it was so fresh and warm -and clear. And there was noticeable then in his eyes -a light, a quiet glow which marked him as a spirit -not to be forgotten. So tenderly boyish was he in -effect that his confreres among the book clerks accepted -with difficulty the story that he was married.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span> -When it was told that he had a son they gasped their -incredulity. And when one day this extraordinary -elfin sprite remarked that at the time of his honeymoon -he had had a beard they felt (I remember) -that the world was without power to astonish them -further.</p> - -<p>As a retail salesman, however, this exceedingly -interesting young man did not make a high mark. -One’s general impression of him “on the floor” is a -picture of a happy student, standing, entranced, -frequently with his back to the door (which theoretically -he should have been watching for incoming -customers), day after day engrossed in perusing a -rare edition of “Madame Bovary.” One sensational -feat of business he did as a clerk perform. Misreading, -in his newness to these hieroglyphics, the -cypher in which in stores the prices of books are -marked on the fly leaves of the volumes, he sold to a -lady a hundred-and-fifty-dollar book for a dollar -and a half. This transaction being what is termed a -“charge sale,” not a “cash sale,” and amid some excitement -the matter being immediately rectified, disaster -for the amateur salesman was averted.</p> - -<p>At Scribner’s a close friendship was, almost at -once, formed between the youthful poet and another -then unpublished writer acting at that time in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span> -same capacity of clerk—a friendship which was -never diminished by the numerous shiftings of Kilmer’s -fields of activity, the multitudinous, diverse -and ardent interests which he acquired in an ever-mounting -measure, and the steady addition of numberless -friends of all classes who eagerly yielded him -their devotion. It was rather a friendship which -was continually cemented by increasing and closer -bonds. It was a part of Kilmer’s spirit to make his -first friend in his literary life a sharer as far as was -possible in each new success of his own. One among -many, innumerable, instances of this was his contriving, -by his influence with the editor (at that time -another intimate, Louis H. Wetmore), to work his -friend into a position somewhat rivaling his own at -the period (1912–1913) when he was the bright and -shining star reviewer for the <i>New York Times Review -of Books</i>. The regular Tuesday lunching together -of these two friends when their offices were -widely separated became, at least in their own -fancy, an American literary institution. The two -were united in all the symbols of affection between -men. And at seasons of rejoicing and adversity the -Kilmer house was to his friend as his own. It is to -this one who among all of Joyce Kilmer’s friends -owes him the greatest debt of friendship has come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span> -the supreme trust of writing, within the power of his -many and conscious limitations, this Memoir, and -editing these volumes.</p> - -<p>Dropping the very small bird which he held in his -hand in the way of a secure salary, the spectacular -bookseller, somewhat to twist the figure, plunged -again into uncharted seas, and became a lexicographer, -as an editorial assistant in the work of preparing -a new edition of the Standard Dictionary. -He blithely began his Johnsonian labours by defining -ordinary words assigned to him, at a pay of five -cents for each word defined. This is a very different -thing indeed from receiving a rate of five cents -a word for writing. It is a task at which you can -obtain an average of perhaps ten or twelve dollars -a week, though some weeks “stickers” will hold you -back. It soon became apparent, evidently, that it -was advisable to put this very capable pieceworker -on a salary; and he was rapidly promoted, with corresponding -increases in remuneration (reaching an -amount of something like four times his initial earnings), -to more advanced phases of the work: research -into dates of birth (involving correspondence -with living celebrities); research into the inception -of inventions (as, for example, the introduction of -the barrier into horse racing); together with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> -defining of words of contemporary origin, in, for instance, -the nomenclature of aviation. In this last -mentioned department, it was his office to call upon -authorities, such as the Wright brothers, and upon -presentation of his credentials to receive precise information. -He interviewed famous tobacco importers, -and coffee merchants; compiled in the New -York Public Library material about fans; unearthed -for use as an illustration a picture of a -strange bird; or was assigned to collect for this purpose -designs of ancient mouldings.</p> - -<p>If lexicography was Kilmer’s venerable occupation, -by political faith he was at the time, this very -young, young man, a socialist. He subscribed for -and frequently contributed to the <i>Call</i> newspaper. -And the height of his effervescence was in addressing -meetings of the proletariat. He was, it must -be said, a burning “young radical.” He frequented, -to some extent, a club of that name. And -with a joyous consciousness of being in the character -of his surroundings he ate meals at the Rand -School of Social Science. He rapidly acquired -a wonderful string of queer acquaintances, in -whose idiosyncrasies he took immense delight. -Some, not of the persuasion, fancied that as an adherent -of the socialist party he was merely enamoured<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -of an intellectual idea. At any rate, whenever -in conversation he spoke of socialism, as he -frequently did, his graceful, amiable young features -assumed a very firm and earnest aspect. -Exactly the point of transition, if there was any -decided point, I cannot recall, but from the proletariat -he passed to the literati. A “man of letters” became -a great word with him. And he looked rather -proudly about as he said it, as a Scot might speak -of the doughty deeds of the Scotch. He was wont -to refer, too, to the “intellectual aristocracy.” His -luncheon engagements were now mostly with this -order of humanity, and his anecdotes featured such -figures as Richard Le Gallienne and Bliss Carman—men -whose personalities delighted his heart beyond -measure.</p> - -<p>How absurdly juvenile he looked. But you would -have noted, as you observed him, that he had a very -fine head, something like that of Arthur Symons -(without the moustache), I thought; or, according -to Mr. Le Gallienne’s sympathetic picture in <i>The -Bookman</i>: “Though the resemblance was perhaps -only a spiritual expression, his then thin, austere -young face, with those strangely strong and gentle -eyes (eyes that seemed to have an independent, -dominating existence), reminded me of Lionel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -Johnson, for whom he had already a great admiration, -and whose religion he was afterwards to embrace.” -Or, again, he seemed as if he might be a -comely youth out of ancient Greece. I think that -what I mean is that he was so unlike all other young -men anyone had ever seen walking about, so much -brighter and purer, or some indescribable thing, -that he did not seem altogether real. A feeling -which I think was shared by many, and which I -have never quite been able to make articulate, Mr. -Le Gallienne has most happily expressed with his -own easy charm; that is the “hint of destiny” in this -“very concentrated, intense young presence—masculine -intense, not feminine:”</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>We have all met young people who give us that—beautiful, -brilliant, lovely natured, so superabundant -in all their qualities (and particularly perhaps -in some quality of emanating light)—as to make -them suggest the supernatural, and touched, too, -with the finger of a moonlight that has written -“fated” upon their brows. Probably our feeling is -nothing more mysterious than our realisation that -temperaments so vital and intense must inevitably -tempt richer and swifter fates than those less wild -winged.</p> -</div> - -<p>Above all, this young gentleman was the portrait -of a poet, even (in those days) of the type of literary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -sophistication which is (or was) called decadent! -There was about him a perceptible aroma of -literary self-consciousness. He had begun to contribute -to magazines and newspapers the verses -which he soon gathered into a first volume, “A -Summer of Love” (an “author’s book,” as the trade -term has it), verses patently derivative in character -(as whose early verses are not?), showing the influences -of various masters.</p> - -<p>He had already become a bit of a celebrity, arriving -at twenty-five in <i>Who’s Who</i>. In conversation -he spoke with striking fluency and precision, -and a rather amusing effect of authority; all of -which, together with a ready command, rather incongruous -for his years, of very apt words little employed -in speech, gave a general impression, I -fancy, of something of an infant prodigy. He -wrote in a letter of this time of the poems of Coventry -Patmore:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I have come to regard them with intense admiration. -Have you read them? Patmore seems to me -to be a greater poet than Francis Thompson. (Kilmer, -had by the way, just given a lecture at Columbia -University on Francis Thompson.) He has -not the rich vocabulary, the decorative erudition, -the Shelleyan enthusiasm, which distinguish the -“Sister Songs” and the “Hound of Heaven,” but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -he has a classical simplicity, a restraint and sincerity -which make his poems satisfying. Some of his -shorter poems, such as “Alexander and Lycon” and -“The Toys,” approach Landor in their Greek economy. -Of course, the “Angel in the House,” and -many other of his poems, are marred by Tennysonian -influences. But the “Unknown Eros” is a work -of stupendous beauty. It is certainly supreme -among modern religious poems. That part of it -devoted to Eros and Psyche is remarkably daring -and remarkably fine. Psyche symbolizes the soul, -and Eros the love of God. Their amour is described -with realistic minuteness, even with humorous -flippancy, and yet the whole poem is alive with -religious feeling.</p> -</div> - -<p class="in0">The finding of Patmore, by the way, was what -might be called a finger-post in Kilmer’s life. The -fortunate introduction was performed by, it is my -impression, Kilmer’s friend Thomas Walsh.</p> - -<p>If in cold print to-day there is a slightly preposterous -didactic quality in these remarks of this -youthful character, it should be instantly noted as -a tribute to the charm that was his that in the presence -of so much handsomeness and grace, combined -with so much flexibility of mind and agile humour, -even this was an engaging thing.</p> - -<p>There was to Kilmer nothing whatever dry-as-dust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -about the erudite business of lexicography; -instead his impressionable nature found among his -co-workers a rich, a colourful, an exciting school of -humanity. He glowed continually with affectionate -amusement at the motley band of literary adventurers, -intellectual soldiers of fortune, who apparently -were his colleagues. One, the most motley -perhaps of all (the long cherished dream of whose -ancient bachelor life it was one day to write a popular -song), touched, for the first time, I think, the -deepest spring of his song—his profound and wide-ranging -humanity.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Some people ask: “What cruel chance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Made Martin’s life so sad a story?”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And wore an overcoat of glory.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>And then, lo! the aesthete became a churchman. -After a couple of years or so of lexicographic employment, -work on the dictionary was completed, -and Kilmer entered what, with immense gusto, he -described as “religious journalism.” He became -literary editor of <i>The Churchman</i>.</p> - -<p>He had completed a very thorough course in uptown -New York apartment house life (living, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span> -think, in rapid succession in some half dozen specimens -of “the great stone box cruelly displayed -severe against the pleasant arc of sky”); and now -removing to the suburban village of Mahwah, New -Jersey, in the Ramapo foothills, he entered upon his -career as one of the world’s most accomplished commuters. -He used to say, with a spacious gesture of -the arm and a haughty inflation of the chest, that it -was no life at all, no life at all, for a man not to -swing around an orbit of at least sixty miles a day -between his office and his home. His home, even so!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>What more exhilarating experience than the -owning of a home! And one paid one’s installments -on the building loan with the fine pride of a man -exercising a noble prerogative. Yes, he often -walked to Suffern along the Erie track, and meditated -on “what a house should do, a house that has -sheltered life,”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and held up his stumbling feet.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span></p> -<p>As became a churchman, he began to hold forth to -his companion on the train to and from the city on -the fascinations of the Anglican poets. Either his -enthusiasm for the subject resulted in a series of -articles on the theme, or an assignment for such a -series of articles resulted in his enthusiasm, I don’t -know which. The significant point is that it was -just as like to have been either way about. “Passon -Hawker”—Robert Stephen Hawker—Vicar of -Morwenstow, a coast life-guard in a cassock—who -can recite off hand the deeds of his piety and his -valour? Well, on the Erie smoker he became one of -the most romantic figures of story. Robert Herrick, -in a manner of speaking, went home many a -night on the Twelve-Forty-Five (Robert Herrick, -that is, with his “Unbaptized Rhimes” left out), -and Bishop Coxe returned on the Seven-Fifty-Six -in the morning.</p> - -<p>Kilmer had already done a few book reviews for -<i>The Nation</i> and for the <i>New York Times</i>; but at -<i>The Churchman</i> he acquired such a proficiency at -this exercise that he was able, jocularly, to regard -Arnold Bennett, as a literary journalist, as a “mere -amateur.” The real reward of “religious journalism,” -however, it soon developed, was the opportunity -of writing a feature which the secular might<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span> -call an editorial, but the proper name of which this -editor pronounced, in the tone and with the manner -of one who was consciously engaged in something -grand, gloomy and peculiar, as a “meditation.”</p> - -<p>The real meditations of Joyce Kilmer, however, -were not “meditations” so called, and partook in no -wise of the nature of editorials. He had been, in the -main, a graceful troubadour who thrummed pleasant -things to his lady-love, and had a bright eye to -his singing robes. He had thought it rather fine, -too, that refrain in imitation of Richepin:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">May booze be plenty, bulls be few,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The poet is the beggars’ king.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">He had even been much taken, artistically, with the -thought of absinthe:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O little green god in your crystal shrine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Your heavenly dream-shower shed!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">It was when his business took him near to God, -when his exploring spirit, upon a peak in Darien, -beheld that:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Poems are made by fools like me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But only God can make a tree,</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">that he began to be a poet. “Trees,” which more -than all the rest he had written put together made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -his reputation, appeared in <i>Poetry. A Magazine of -Verse</i> in August, 1913.</p> - -<p>At about this period it was that he was altogether -born again. Then, doubtless in castigatory reaction -against his own aesthetic and “decadent” wild oats, -entered into his fibre that sovereign disdain for the -intellectual flub-dub which later gave such a delightful -note of “horse-sense” to all his humorous -thought—the Johnsonian sting (“and don’t you -think you were an ass?”) which found its earliest -biting expression in the verses “To a Young Poet -Who Killed Himself.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been leading a rather active life, for several -days,” was with a gay salute of the hand, a frequent -Kilmerian remark. In 1912 the direction of -the <i>New York Times Review of Books</i> fell into the -hands of a high-spirited young man, a Max-Beerbohmian -character, with a decided taste for gaiety in -reviews, Mr. Wetmore, who conducted that organ -through what is known in New York journalistic -tradition as its “meteoric period.” Mr. Wetmore’s -wit perceived in Kilmer his happiest rocket. Not -only given his head but egged on by his editor to -strive for sublime heights of fantasy, this fairly unknown -contributor shot in a series of reviews which -for readability was, the applause now indicated, an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -altogether new thing in the book pages of an American -newspaper. “This is a bad book, a very bad -book, indeed,” so ran the style. “It is bad because -it makes this reviewer feel old and fat and bald.” -If, together with their humorous assumption of a -jovial cocksureness of manner, the literary judgments -expressed were, of necessity, snap-shot judgments, -there was nothing snap-shot nor assumed -about a certain quality in them which in general -effect was the most striking of all, namely, the reflection -in a very positive way of a radiantly clean -and wholesome young nature, abounding in mental -and spiritual health.</p> - -<p>As one of the general prime movers in, and for a -number of years Corresponding Secretary of The -Poetry Society of America, Kilmer engaged on the -side in activities which for many another would have -been in themselves almost a whole job. A fervent -Dickensonian, he was for a long period president -and (one felt) the animating principle of the American -Dickens Fellowship. He accumulated offices -to such an extent that I am doubtful if anyone but -himself knew exactly how many employments he -had altogether, or at any one moment. He conducted -the Poetry department of <i>The Literary Digest</i> -for something like nine years, an obligation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -which he continued to fulfill even from Camp Mills, -Long Island, to the time when he sailed for France. -For a time he conducted a similar department in -<i>Current Literature</i>, and also did a quarterly article -on poetry for, I think, the <i>Review of Reviews</i>. -Among his earlier essays in the lecture field was a -paper on “The Drama as an Instrument of Sex -Education,” read before a regular meeting of the -Society of Sanitary and Moral Prophylaxis held -at the New York Academy of Medicine, in December, -1913. The society with the playful name, -I recollect, got seriously interested in the matter of -sex education as then expounded. Their views on -the drama in this connection were enlarged by -acquisition of the idea that though “‘The Great -Love’ is, in my opinion, one of the most skilfully -constructed plays presented on the New York stage -for many a year, I am quite serious in saying that as -a factor in sex education, it is a thousand times inferior -to ‘Bertha the Beautiful Cloak Model.’”</p> - -<p>As Kilmer was always decidedly what is termed -a ready writer, what I should attempt to describe -as a natural writer (a startling exception to the rule -that easy writing makes hard reading), so he appeared -to have the gift of speaking readily in public. -On frequent occasions, at any rate in his early talks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -he neglected altogether to prepare any outline beforehand, -and even sometimes to choose a subject. -Every now and then, I have known him repeatedly -to say to his companion at dinner, without, however, -any trace at all of nervousness: “Now, look here: -Put your mind on this. Stop all that gossip. Tell -me what I’m to talk about. I have to begin” (looking -at his watch) “in twenty-five minutes.”</p> - -<p>He was particularly active in the affairs of the -Authors’ Club, and was a member of the Vagabonds, -the Columbia University Club and the -Alianza Puertorriguena. In 1913 he ceased, officially, -to be a churchman. For a brief period he -contemplated the prospect of a professorship, lecturing -on English Literature at the University of -the South, Sewanee, Tennessee. Then, to his great -delight, he became a newspaper man—as he continually -put it, with much relish in the part, “a hard -newspaper man.” He became a special writer for -the <i>New York Times Sunday Magazine</i>. I am sure -he saw himself in fancy as one of those weather-beaten -characters bred in the old-time newspaper -school of booze, profanity and hard knocks, his only -text-book the police-court blotter and the moulder -of his youth a particularly brutal night city-editor. -He maintained, with humorous arrogance against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span> -opposing argument, the thesis that every great -writer had got his “training” as a newspaper man. -He delighted to point, as illustrations of this, to -Dickens, to Thackeray, and to a lot more, who, in -any strict sense of the word, were not “newspaper -men” at all. Hard pressed, he even stood ready to -make some such hilariously sweeping assertion as -that George Eliot, Shakespeare, Tennyson and -Robert Browning were, properly perceived, “newspaper -men.”</p> - -<p>At any rate, this hard newspaper man had to -begin with a comical equipment for his task: he -would never learn to typewrite and he knew nothing -of shorthand. Or rather, he was remarkably well -equipped, as one of the outstanding traits of his -character was the fearless zest with which, so to say, -he took the hurdles of life, and a peculiar faculty in -triumphing over such obstacles as his own limitations. -He rapidly invented a curious system of -abbreviations and marks to remind him of points, -which served him as an interviewer as effectively as -any knowledge of stenography could have done. -He energetically entered upon his occupation as a -feature writer with the customary themes of the -“Sunday story.” He interviewed, figuratively -speaking, the man who had discovered the missing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span> -link, and he got from the latest inventor of perpetual -motion all the arresting details of his machine. -And a lively part of the early Sunday morning -ritual at his home was the advance calculating with -a tape measure of the week’s income from space -writing.</p> - -<p>It was later that he created his own highly successful -type of literary interview. An intelligent -perception of the business, a perception which is not -general, perhaps is required fully to appreciate the -fact that in this department of newspaper work he -was an exceedingly skillful journalist. The secret -of his really brilliant success in this field lay in large -part in his instinct for luring the distinguished subject -of his interview into provocative statements, -enabling him to employ such heads as: “Is O. Henry -a Pernicious Literary Influence?” “Godlessness -Mars Most Contemporary Poetry,” “Americans -Lack Loyalty To Their Writers,” “Shackled -Magazine Editors Harm Literature,” “Declares -Our Rich Authors Make Cheap Literature” and -“Says American Literature Is Going To the -Dogs.”</p> - -<p>At the time of the death of James Whitcomb -Riley, Kilmer hurried to the Catskills for his interview -with Bliss Carman. On his way back to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span> -city, by way of his home at Mahwah, he dashed with -his usual impetuosity in front of the moving train -he was seeking to board, was knocked down and -hurled or dragged a considerable distance, and -taken to the Good Samaritan Hospital at Suffern, -New York, with three ribs fractured and other injuries; -where, wiring immediately to New York for -his secretary, he dictated an interview as engaging -and as full of journalistic craft as any he ever -wrote. He seemed much more intent on his Sunday -story, it is reported by H. Christopher Watts, -who was acting as his secretary at that time, than -on his predicament.</p> - -<p>I did not see Kilmer at this time myself, but I -have an idea that, when he had relieved his mind of -the anxiety concerning his article, he entered into -the spirit of his experience with much relish. It -isn’t every day that one gets hit by a train, nor -everybody that has three ribs broken. Exhilarating -kind of thing, when you see it that way! I remember -one time when I was practically in hospital -myself he went to a good deal of trouble to come -to see me. He seemed to admire my predicament -very much, and, beaming upon me, remarked in -high good humour that it must be an entertaining -thing to be so completely at the mercy of circumstances<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span> -over which you had no control. When shall -we look upon his like again!</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>I really doubt very much whether anybody ever -enjoyed food more than Kilmer. The slender -youth had become a decidedly stocky young man, -who ate mammoth meals with prodigious satisfaction. -He delighted upon sitting down to breakfast -to maintain, with almost savage earnestness (such -was the amusing effect), that the most fitting dish -for that meal was steak. As a matter of fact, however, -his habit was to miss his breakfast altogether -through haste to catch his train, except for a cup of -coffee and a piece of buttered toast which, when he -missed the ’bus, he ate, a mouthful every dozen or -so leaps, on his way down the hill (almost a mountain) -to the station. Sundays, however, with the -whole day at home, he apparently regarded among -other things as a sort of barbecue. Looking over -the morning table it was his custom to inquire with -the air of a man making a fairly satisfactory beginning, -what was scheduled for dinner.</p> - -<p>Kilmer never ate any lunch, as the ordinary world -understands the word—about the first hour of the -afternoon he went (when his means had become<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -such that he could afford it) to a sort of Thanksgiving -or Christmas dinner every day. How proceeding -directly to his office he did any work afterward, -was always considerable of a mystery to me. And -lunching alone he doubtless regarded as a misanthropic -perversion. His luncheons and his frequent -dinners in town alone represented what many would -regard as a rather arduous social life, which however -arduous, however, never failed to include the weekly -luncheon with his mother, Mrs. Kilburn-Kilmer. -As an epilogue, so to say, to his meal it was his wont -to have, speaking his order slowly so as to suck the -full flavour of the idea, “a large black cigar.”</p> - -<p>One time being in the city with his family for a -period after the birth of one of his children, he gave -a series of Sunday morning breakfasts at a fashionable -restaurant (it was a pleasant crotchet with him -that he was “a fashionable young man”), entertainments -which were distinguished by, first, the fact -the guests so abundantly represented the world of -journalism that they filled a good portion of the -room, and, secondly, by the circumstance of their -lingering at the board until mid-day diners began -to arrive.</p> - -<p>How a poet could <em>not</em> be a glorious eater, it was -one of Kilmer’s whims to say, he could not see; for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -the poet was happier than other men by reason of -his acuter senses, and as his eyes delighted in the -beauty of the world, so should his palate thrill with -pleasure in the taste of the earth’s bounteous yield -for the sustenance of men. The romance, too, of -the things we eat he felt lustily.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Rich spices from the Orient,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And fruit that knew Italian skies.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>He had another, and a decidedly quaint, notion of -food. He firmly believed that hearty eating was an -adequate physical compensation for loss of sleep. -He was fond of declaring his faith in this fantastic -idea by means of a story of some “ancient receptive -child” (friend of his) who managed to bring up a -family of seven (or so) children by ill-paid hack-work -occupying most of the day and night—a noble -success due entirely to noble meals.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This man has home and child and wife</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And battle set for every day.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This man has God and love and life;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">These stand, all else shall pass away.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>And “this man’s” days were long, long days: -Kilmer’s home, a place of boundless week-end hospitality -and almost equally boundless domesticity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span> -(guests being obliged to exercise much agility in -clambering about toys with which the stairs were -laden), was also year after year a place of almost -unbelievable literary industry. The trying idiosyncrasies -of the artistic temperament were about as -discernible in Kilmer as kleptomania. He was, as -you may say, social and domestic in his habits of -writing to an amazing degree. Night after night -he would radiantly walk up and down the floor singing -a lullaby to one of his children whom he carried -screaming in his arms while he dictated between -vociferous sounds to his secretary or wife—his wife -frequently driven by the drowsiness of two in the -morning to take short naps with her head upon the -typewriter while the literally tireless journalist -filled and lighted his pipe.</p> - -<p>This, however, was an atmosphere of cloistral seclusion -compared with Kilmer’s office at the <i>New -York Times</i>. Here, where he regularly got -through each week enough hard work to hold down -three or four fairly capable young men, he maintained -a sort of salon for a ludicrous variety of picturesque -characters with nothing in particular to -do and no place else to go, ranging from types of -patrician leisure to stray dogs of the literary world -visibly out of a job.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span></p> - -<p>The latter class, indeed, apparently regarded him -as a kind of a clearing house for employment. A -singularly convincing commentary on the radiating -humanity of this brilliant young man was one rather -grotesque feature of his mail. In addition to a constant -and copious stream of requests from persons -but slightly known, or quite unknown to him, for -advice as to how to succeed in letters, and for his -personal imprimatur on their enclosed manuscripts, -he was apparently constantly in receipt of innumerable -epistolary stories of extraordinary distress, suffered -(generally) by elderly characters defeated in -the lists of literature. Though there was in Kilmer’s -robust nature a decided distaste, somewhat -analogous to the innate aversion of the clean in -spirit to moral obliquity, for what he termed “ineffectual -people,” there was too an amusing strain of -paternal feeling toward most of those of all ages -with whom he was in contact. And this feeling he -did not neglect, whenever the occasion arose, to -translate into practical effect.</p> - -<p>He had a comical manner of terming his elders -“young” So-and-So. I was six years his senior, -which at the period of life at which we met represented -a considerable difference in experience. -And yet, throughout our association, in spiritual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -force he was the oak, I the clinging vine. And I -know of cases where this was quite as much so when -the other man was something like fifteen years the -elder. One such instance, ludicrous in its contrast -between the two men, was confessed to me with -deep feeling just the other day.</p> - -<p>“So-long” or “good-bye” was seldom Kilmer’s -parting word. It was rather a word he continually -used which will be thought of as peculiarly his as -long as his memory endures, the closing word of -“Rouge Bouquet.” The last time I saw him at his -home, then at Larchmont Manor, New York, my -companion (in marriage) and I upon leaving almost -missed our car, which started a block or so -from the Kilmer house. As the three of us dashed -after it, Kilmer stopped this car by what seemed to -me something like sheer force of his willing it to -stop. Then, as he dropped away from the race, -there came from him high and clear out of the -night (and always shall I hear it ring) his benediction: -“Farewell! Children.” Yes, it is even so; -as the spirit is measured and the frailties of the soul -are numbered, how many who knew this wondrous -boy were his “children”!</p> - -<p>The wisdom of the maxim “A busy man is never -too busy to do one thing more” was indisputable in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span> -the spectacle of Kilmer. Though this was not, so -far as I recollect, a maxim he employed, he had one -of his own something like it, which admirably -summed up his practical philosophy. When confronted -by some financial dilemma, he was fond of -declaring: “The demand creates the supply. A -sound economic principle.” He seemed to crave -serious responsibilities and insistent obligations as -some men crave liquor; and he grew more rosy as -these increased.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Thank God for the mighty tide of fears</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Against me always hurled!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the sting of His chastening rod!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">There was nothing incongruous to Kilmer about the -incongruity expressed in a communication written -in 1916 to the Reverend Edward F. Garesché, -S. J.; a letter which began by saying, “I am sorry -that your letter of October 11 has been so long unanswered, -but this has been the busiest month of my -life”; which then told of his looping the loop of the -country in lecture engagements; proceeded to discuss -a matter which had made a strong appeal to his -heart, the founding of an Academy of Catholic -Letters to be called the Marian Institute; and concluded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span> -with the remark, “I will gladly take on the -work of acting secretary until the members make -their own selection.”</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>In 1913, Kilmer’s daughter Rose, nine months of -age, was stricken with infantile paralysis. It was -then, upon his bringing his family to town to give -his daughter the treatment of a specialist, when he -came to my house to tell me of this, that I first distinctly -realised that this young man was remarkable—in -a manner far beyond mere talent. The idea -which he kept firmly before his mind was that it -had been declared there was no occasion to fear her -death as a result of her affliction. During the course -of his stay with me that day he said several times, -“Well, there are lots of people worse off than I -am.” This idea, too, it was apparent, he felt he -must hold before him. And then, with his amazing -and unconquerable <em>flair</em> for life, he launched upon -the theme that this was a “very interesting disease,” -and he elaborated the thought that an infirmity of -the body frequently resulted in an increased vitality -of the mind.</p> - -<p>“I like to feel that I have always been a Catholic,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -was a sentiment frequently expressed by Kilmer. -It has repeatedly been declared by friends -very close to him that his minute knowledge of pious -customs and practices of which a life-long Catholic -might easily be ignorant was a constant surprise to -them, but that with respect to religion as particularised -in himself he kept silent, would never discuss -the steps that led to his conversion, and it was only -by chance they discovered he was a daily communicant. -It was late in 1918 that Kilmer astonished -the little world that then comprised his family, his -friends and acquaintances by entering, with his -wife, the Roman Catholic Church. One afternoon -not long after this occurrence he not so much invited -as directed me over the telephone to meet him -that night for dinner at the Columbia Club. His -purpose soon became clear. This was the only -solemn hour I ever spent with Kilmer. I think it -well to record here what he deeply impressed upon -me: that it was this searing test of his spirit which -had come upon him in the affliction of his daughter -that fixed his religion.</p> - -<p>Kilmer did not become a great patriot when his -country entered the world war. He was, of course, -the same in fibre then as before. Only then was -known to him and visible to others what was latent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span> -in his heart. And in this sense it was, I think, that -it was clear to him that he did not become, but had -always been a Catholic, though he had not earlier -realised it. He tried all things and held fast to that -which he found good. He was inwardly driven to -seek until his spirit found its home. That only the -time of his conversion was, in a sense, accidental, -and that the conversion itself was inevitable, must -be evident in the fact that he was never really himself -before he became, as we say, a convert. Then -his fluid spirituality, his yearning sense of religion, -was stabilized. What is the “secret,” as we say, of -all that has been told of his ability? His courage, -his mental and physical energy, were, manifestly, -unusual. But his character, in the faith that he -embraced, found its tempered spring. His talent -was a wingéd seed which in the rich soil which had -mothered so much art found fructification.</p> - -<p>It is not an unsupported assertion to say that he -was in his time and place the laureate of the Catholic -Church. His sentiments as to the function of a -Catholic poet he has expressed very positively in -his essays and lectures. He joyed in the new proof -given by Helen Parry Eden “that piety and mirth -may comfortably dwell together.” “A convert to -Catholicism,” he wrote of Mr. Yeats on Lionel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -Johnson, “is not a person who wanders about weeping -over autumn winds and dead leaves, mumbling -Latin and sniffing incense.” Nor is it necessary to -lay æsthetic hands on the church’s treasures, “and -decorate rhymes with rich ecclesiastical imagery and -the fragrant names of the saints.” But in Faith -one may find “that purity and strength which are -the guarantees of immortality.”</p> - -<p>And, once a Catholic, there never was any possibility -of mistaking Kilmer’s point of view: in all -matters of religion, art, economics and politics, as -well as in all matters of faith and morals, his point -of view was obviously and unhesitatingly Catholic. -Considerable as were his gifts and skill as a politician -in the business of his career, the veriest zealot -could not say that he did not do the most unpolitic -things in the service of his faith. A very positive -figure, he laboured tirelessly, alternating from one -field to another, for the Catholic Church.</p> - -<p>As a brilliant interpretative critic of Catholic -writers, such as Crashaw, Patmore, Francis -Thompson, Lionel Johnson and Belloc, he brought, -I think I may venture to say, an altogether new -touch into Catholic journalism in America, a striking -and distinguished blend of “piety and mirth,” -which had the rare and highly effective quality of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -being both engaging and highly illuminating even -to, as Kilmer would amiably have said, the Pagan. -Impetus, of course, was given to his style in this by -his admiration for the brilliant school of English -Catholic journalists, an impetus doubtless accelerated -by the personal acquaintance with Belloc, the -Chestertons and the Meynells he gained in a flying -visit to England in 1914 to rescue his mother from -war difficulties in London; when, during a few odd -moments before his return, he established a lively -connection with the Northcliffe papers and <i>T. P.’s -Weekly</i>. Even so, Kilmer almost, or quite, alone -transplanted this particular spark; and his note of -witty common sense and spiritual sensibility was -particularly Kilmerian, too.</p> - -<p>One day about four years ago the village Post -Office at Mahwah did a totally unprecedented and -most extraordinary business in outgoing mail, and -Kilmer was again multiplied manifold. The neat -circulars which he had printed and with which he -stuffed the mail box announced that the author of -“Trees,” a member of the staff of the <i>New York -Times</i>, etc., etc., “offered the following lectures for -the coming season.” The result may best be epitomised -in the parable of the gentleman who cast -his bread upon the waters to have it come back to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span> -him in the form of sardine sandwiches. The rapid -development of Kilmer’s lecture business, which -soon assumed the proportions of no mean career in -itself, immensely extended his force as a quickening -influence in the Catholic world. Before societies -and educational institutions in many places, -frequently travelling as far as Notre Dame, Indiana, -and Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, he flung his -bright portraits of “seekers after that real but elusive -thing called beauty, a thing which they found -in their submission to her who is the mother of all -learning, all culture, and all the arts, the Catholic -Church.”</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>As a literary lecturer and a reader of his own -poems before secular audiences his success was no -less abundant. In “the only combination of its kind -since Bill Nye and James Whitcomb Riley,” as the -circular of the J. B. Pond Lyceum Bureau stated -it, “the young American Poet” and the author of -“Pigs is Pigs” contributed considerably to the lightening -of the rigours of existence by an extended -repetition of “a joint evening of readings from their -works.” Ellis Parker Butler, in a letter before me, -writes of his partner on the programme:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>He was a most charming travelling companion -and an ideal team-mate for the purpose we had in -mind. I would not have thought of going “on tour” -if I had not met Kilmer. My idea was never to -“go on tour” but, after I had met Kilmer, to “go on -tour with Kilmer.” He was altogether lovable and -loved.</p> -</div> - -<p>It would be a decidedly false estimate of Kilmer -which failed to note, even with some emphasis, that -he was an excellent man of business. He “played -the game,” in the exceedingly difficult job of earning -a thoroughly competent living at the literary -profession, with a dexterity which, it was frequently -apparent, was at once an inspiration and a despair -to those who sought to rival him. The Kilmer cult -which grew apace was considerably accelerated by a -rich Kilmerian strategy. And he delivered to the -little world of intensely intense literary societies and -blue-nosed salons which hung upon his lips the pure -milk of the word with a strongly humorous consciousness -of the feat as a part of the immense sport -of living.</p> - -<p>Kilmer’s “act” as it was observed from behind the -scenes is excellently presented by an associate in the -office of the <i>New York Times</i>. This writer says in -the <i>Philadelphia Press</i>:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Our editor analysed him into three distinct -manners: Kilmer, the literary man; Kilmer, the -lecturer; and Kilmer, himself. His first appearance -in the office would give you the cue to him for -the day. If he came in grinning with his pipe drawing -well, we would know that nothing was to be -feared; he was himself. When he got his “literary” -manner on, the symptom was a tapping of his eyeglass, -with his right hand on the fingers of his left. -When he appeared in his cutaway coat and a particularly -pastoral necktie, we knew that on that day -the elderly ladies of This Literary Club or the -young ladies of That Academy were to be treated to -a discourse on certain aspects of Victorian verse.</p> - -<p>One day he came in, obviously decked out for a -lecture. Without his having said a word about it, -the assistant Sunday editor spoke up: “Let’s cut -out work this afternoon and hear Kilmer lecture.” -A look of horror overspread his face. “For -heaven’s sake, don’t,” he said. “I couldn’t go -through with it.” I don’t believe any of us ever did -hear him.</p> -</div> - -<p>A thing which I found very singular was that, in -manner Kilmer was apt, in the two or three later -years of his life, to give strangers on their first meeting -the impression of being somewhat too dignified -for so young a man, of being, as his office associate -John Bunker in an admirable, even a remarkable,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span> -portrait of him at this period published in <i>America</i>, -says, “in fact just a trifle pompous.” Mr. Bunker -continues: “This was due partly to his physical appearance, -and also, insofar as it had any basis in -reality, to that protective instinct which quickly -teaches a sensitive and imaginative spirit to cast a -veil between itself and the outer world.”</p> - -<p>I myself think this effect had its origin in the -same perverse instinct which causes you, immediately -after talking with a deaf person, to speak very -loud to your next auditor whom you very well know -can hear perfectly; that is, it was the result of being -keyed up to appearing on an elevated platform before -a curious throng. He one time astonished me -by the declaration that it was only by, quite early in -his life, drastically schooling himself to the task, -one then exceedingly trying and hateful to him, that -he became able to rise and “speak” at all. The most -entertaining recollection, by the way, that I have of -the Kilmerian pontifical manner is of a time when -he generously invited me to have my shoes polished -with him, thrust his hand deep into his pocket to pay -the boy, paused, and with a very large gesture -directed him to call in again later in the day.</p> - -<p>There is first-rate perspicacity in the remark of -one of Kilmer’s friends, Laurence J. Gomme, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -at one score and ten he was, in the amount that he -had lived, about seventy years old. Something of -the force and sharpness of Mr. Bunker’s evocation -of the man as he was at last resides, I think, in the -circumstance that here is no blending in the mind of -the flower and the bud. He says: “When I first -met Kilmer he had just passed his thirtieth year, but -he gave me the impression of being somewhat older. -I afterwards spoke of this to him, and it was his -theory that newspaper work had served to age him. -The truth was that it was due not merely to his -newspaper work, but generally to the incessant and -intense mental activity, the extraordinary and flaming -energy, whereby he crowded into ten years the -experiences of several ordinary lifetimes.” And -this touch of the slight Bunker portrait is, I feel, -essential to any fuller picture:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>As to his physical aspect, he was stockily built -and about medium height, and his habit of body was -what I should call plump, though later, under the -stress of military drill, he changed somewhat in this -last respect. I noted at once that he had a remarkable -head—well rounded, with broad and high forehead -and a very pronounced bulge at the back, covered -thickly with dark, reddish-brown hair. But his -eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were -of the unusual colour of red, and they had a most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span> -peculiar quality which I can only inadequately suggest -by saying that they literally glowed. It actually -seemed as if there were a fire behind them, not a -leaping and blazing fire, but a steady and unquenchable -flame which appeared to suffuse the whole eyeball -with a brooding light. This characteristic was -so striking that I cannot help dilating on it. And -I observed later on that this glow, this brooding and -somewhat sombre light, never left his eyes even in -his most weary or most care-free moments, so that -they gave the impression of what I believe was the -fact—the impression of a brain behind them which -was working intensely and perhaps even feverishly -every hour of the waking day.</p> -</div> - -<p>The better poet Kilmer became, as his friend -Richardson Wright says in his admirable “Appreciation” -in <i>The Bellman</i>, the less like a poet he -acted. And after he grew up, he would about as -soon have æstheticised, off the platform, as he would -have forged a check. Whenever he did refer to -poetry as related to himself he, as the slang term -has it, took it smiling. One of Kilmer’s most pronounced -pet aversions was the phrase, utterly -mawkish to him, about “prostituting” one’s talent. -He one time explained to me, with considerable apparent -pride, that he used every idea three times: in -a poem, in an article, and in a lecture.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span></p> - -<p>Charles Willis Thompson, an editorial writer of -the <i>New York Times</i>, and to whom belongs the -credit of first taking, as editor of the <i>Sunday Magazine</i> -and <i>Book Review</i>, Kilmer’s “stuff” in any -amount, inspired, so to say, the poem “Delicatessen,” -in this way. Mr. Thompson happened to remark -to Kilmer that of course there were a lot of -things which couldn’t be treated in poetry. Kilmer -declared he would like to know what they were. -Mr. Thompson cast about in his mind for the most -ridiculous theme for a poem he could think of, and -finally proclaimed that no one could possibly write -a poem about such a thing as a delicatessen shop. -“I’ll write a poem about a delicatessen shop,” Kilmer -promptly replied. “It will be a long poem. -I’ll sell it to a high-brow magazine. It will be much -admired. And it will be a good poem.” He insisted -on betting on this the sum of several dollars.</p> - -<p>The origin of “The Twelve-Forty-Five” I do not -exactly know. But I remember shortly before that -poem was written, sitting disgusted and miserable -with Kilmer in that horrible “Jersey City shed” -waiting for the midnight train. Taking out of his -mouth that villainously large, fifty-cent pipe (mentioned -in all genuine appreciations) Kilmer, with -a fervour almost violent, suddenly exclaimed: “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span> -certainly do like railroad stations! They are fine -places!” The very famous poem “The White -Ships and The Red” (a poem so wonderfully effective -that it was at once reprinted all over the country -and in Europe) was a newspaper assignment. -He rather liked the poem when he saw it in the -paper; though, with his feet cocked up on his desk, -he spoke apologetically of what he felt to be the failure -of the latter stanzas to link up perfectly with the -first, explaining that a luncheon appointment, at -which he chatted for an hour or two, had split the -writing of it into two sittings. That the author of -this “Lusitania” poem thoroughly felt and meant -what he said, is, I fancy, sufficiently proven by the -event to permit of this being told.</p> - -<p>The point is, that Kilmer was a poet, an artist of -a high order, a perfectly conscious master of what -he was doing. The febrile gush of emotion he -loathed. He knew finely that:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">There was nothing accidental about the effect of his -own verse, any more than there was “luck” in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span> -worldly success. He achieved the one as he did the -other by a masculine heart and mind. And while -all things were necessary and joyous, it was impossible -not to feel that, after all, throughout his day -“the rhymer’s honest trade” was his primary concern.</p> - -<p>He was sufficiently grounded in literature to feel, -as Mr. Le Gallienne says, no “weariness with those -literary methods which had sufficed for Chaucer and -Shakespeare and Milton, or Catullus or Bion, or -François Villon—content, with reverent ambition, -to tread that immortal path.”</p> - -<p>In his religious mysticism a trace, and more than -a trace, has been found of Crashaw, of Vaughan, of -Herbert, and of Belloc and Chesterton. And there -is no difficulty at all about finding in Kilmer hints -of Patmore, and there may be easily recognised -something of the accents of A. E. Housman and of -Edwin Arlington Robinson. He did, indeed, to -put it in a racy phrase, have the drop on those who -do not know that all art that endures must have its -roots in a constant interrogation of the “unimpeachable -testimony” of the ages. His song was as old -as the hills, and as fresh as the morning. Precisely -in this, in fact, is his remarkableness, his originality, -as a contemporary poet; and in this will be, I think,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span> -his abiding quality. “Simple and direct, yet not -without subtle magic,” wrote Father James J. -Daly, S.J., in a review of “Trees and Other -Poems,” printed in <i>America</i>, his verse “seems artlessly -naïve, yet it possesses deep undercurrents of -masculine and forceful thought; it is ethical in its -seriousness, and yet as playful and light-hearted as -sunlight and shadows under summer oaks.” And -this admirable summing up of Kilmer’s talent -leaves little more in the way of direct criticism to be -said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Le Gallienne with felicitous tact of phrase -has touched upon this, that “no young poet of our -time has so reverently, on so many pages, in so -many different ways, so playfully at times, as in -that masterpiece of playful reverence, ‘A Blue -Valentine,’ woven through the texture of his song -the love of his lady—that lady ‘Aline,’ whose name -will be gently twined about his as long as the -printed word endures.” A misquotation in the -<i>Ladies’ Home Journal</i> led to an interesting tribute -to the author of “Trees.” Many readers of the -<i>Journal</i> were somewhat startled to find the editor -attributing to John Masefield the lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A tree that looks at God all day</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And lifts her leafy arms to pray.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span></p> -<p class="in0">The following issue of the magazine contained this -correction and acknowledgment by Mr. Bok:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I am free to confess that I did not know the correct -author. I had been reading John Masefield -that morning and unconsciously wrote his name as -the author of these lines. A number of friends have -pointed to the error and supplied the knowledge. -The author is Joyce Kilmer, and to him I owe, and -here express, my sense of deep apology. The exquisite -lines were worthy of John Masefield, but -that does not make them less worthy of their rightful -author, as all will agree who read his beautiful -work in his book “Trees and Other Poems.”</p> -</div> - -<p>As one, somewhat effusive commentator has remarked, -“Trees” just could not be confined within -the covers of a book. At once reprinted in newspapers -throughout the United States (and still being -so reprinted) it was crowned in that warmest -of all ways in which a work of literature can be -honoured, by being cut out by the world and pasted -in its hat. In one version it reads, in part, in this -way:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Cuando contemplo un arbol pienso: nunca vere un poema tan bello y tan intenso.</p> - -<p>Un arbol silencioso que con ansia se aferra a la dulce y jugosa entrans de la tierra.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span></p> - -<p>Un arbol que mirando los cielos se extansia y en oracion levanta los brazos noche y dia.</p> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Many of Kilmer’s poems have been translated into -Spanish by Salomon de la Selva, Enriquez Urenia -and others, and have appeared in a number of prominent -South American papers.</p> - -<p>In a letter from France to Edward W. Cook, -who in quest of material for a book on contemporary -poets had written Kilmer asking several questions, -Kilmer commented, among other things, on -his “earlier efforts in poetry” (as the questionnaire -apparently had put it), in a manner which is evidence -again of how perfectly well he knew what he -was about. “If what I nowadays write is considered -poetry,” he announced, “then I became a poet -in November, 1913.” Admirable for hard-headedness, -directness and precision, it is a statement -which leaves the critic no point upon which to take -issue. His early poems “were only the exercises of -an amateur, imitations, useful only as technical -training.” The peculiar thing about these highly -skilful experiments in various forms of craftsmanship -is that they were so very much better as poems -than the derivative efforts usually written at this -period of apprenticeship, “so free,” as Mr. Le Gallienne<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span> -notes, “from those artistic immaturities which -have made many old great poets angrily denounce -unlicensed reprinters of their ‘first editions.’” And -in this fact they have a decided, and a perfectly legitimate, -interest for the observer of the development -of his talent—though Kilmer declared “they -were worthless, that is, all of them which preceded -a poem called ‘Pennies,’ which you will find in my -book ‘Trees and Other Poems.’” He added, “I -want all of my poems written before that to be forgotten.”</p> - -<p>He was writing, one remembers, to a gentleman -with whom he was so slightly acquainted that he -addressed him as “Dear Mr. Cook,” with the measure -of whose sympathy and critical acumen, it is -to be inferred, he was not conversant, and who presumably -was about to estimate (with what perspective -he could not perceive) his earliest productions. -It were better to head off any uncertainty in the -matter. Also, we all know, one’s hot impatience -with one’s strivings of yesterday is mellowed by -time into an amiable and appreciative tolerance of -one’s earnest efforts of twenty years ago. It is difficult -to think that Kilmer at fifty would have had an -unjust scorn of those charming exercises on the -poetic scales he wrote at twenty-one.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span></p> - -<p>Anyhow, no man can, by decree or otherwise, obliterate -his past; both the good and the bad that he -has done continue to pursue him. Ten times thrice -happy is he, rarest of men, who, like Kilmer, never -penned a line or said a word or did a deed that can -arise to bring confusion to those that love him. The -world does not willingly let die those verses on which -glistens the dew of his tender youth. They are -brought forth for praise by no mean critics in tribute -to his memory. And in conformity with the -wishes of those most jealous of his good name as a -poet a representative selection of his early poems -is reprinted in these volumes.</p> - -<p>He that lives by the pen shall perish by the pen, -saith the wisdom of James Huneker. For a sapling -poet, within a few short years and by the hard business -of words, to attain to a secretary and a butler -and a family of, at length, four children, is a modern -Arabian Nights Tale. Equally impossible is it, -seemingly, to accomplish another thing, which is a -remarkable part of Kilmer’s distinction. From -first to last, from the verses contributed to <i>Moods</i> in -1909 to the last poem he wrote, “The Peacemaker,” -printed in the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i> in October, -1918, Kilmer was a poet’s poet. “A pretty good -poet,” said such a poet (shaking his head at his conviction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span> -of the truth of this) as Bliss Carman. His -poems were repeatedly adjudged high places -among the best poems read before the Poetry Society. -Among competitive honours, under the name -of “John Langdon” he won easily enough with his -poem, “The Annunciation,” first prize in the -Marian Poetry contest conducted by <i>The Queen’s -Work</i>, in July, 1917, an award competed for by a -great number of poets, including many in other -countries. He was a poet’s poet who declared (with -considerable vehemence, I remember) that he certainly -wished he had written “Casey At The Bat.” -He one time said in praise of a book of essays that it -was “that kind of glorified reporting which is -poetry.” As a singer of the simpler annals of humanity -his place will draw closer and closer, I think, -to that of the most widely loved poet of our own era. -Only the name of James Whitcomb Riley expresses -in greater measure the rich gift of speaking with -authentic song to the simplest hearts. A man who -believes that churches are devices of the devil and -literature a syrup for crack-brained females can enjoy, -with profit to his soul, “The House With Nobody -In it,” “Dave Lilly” and “The Servant Girl -and the Grocer’s Boy” equally with “The Old -Swimmin’-Hole” and “Little Orphant Annie.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span></p> - -<p>If Colonel Roosevelt had never done anything -other than what he has done in writing, he would -undoubtedly be highly esteemed as an American -man of letters. And people have made very creditable -reputations as humourists who never wrote -anything like as humorous essays as those of Joyce -Kilmer. They fairly reek with the joy of life. -They explode with intellectual robustness. They -are fragrant in fancy, richly erudite in substance, -touch-and-go in manner, poetic in feeling, rocking -with mirth, and display an extraordinary <em>flair</em> for -style. If it should seem that I am not here measuring -my words I suggest a reference to a piece of -documentary evidence called “The Gentle Art of -Christmas Giving,” a “Sunday story” in the <i>New -York Times</i>, here reprinted. Writing at top-notch -speed, never looking again at what he had written, -intentionally producing a readily marketable commodity, -from which profit must be realised quickly, -Kilmer was an exceedingly rare bird in America; -that is, a belletristic journalist. There is always the -touch to his work of a man of letters. Decidedly -Bellocian, Chestertonian, certainly his humorous -essays are. But that it was a good deal more an -affinity of mind with, than an imitation of, those -splendidly humorous English philosophers is borne<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span> -out by this: Joyce Kilmer did not talk poetry, but -he did talk exactly like his essays, which admirably -present the brave humorous wisdom of the man as -his intimate friends knew him.</p> - -<p>Official critical authority did not dampen his -verve. As a contributing editor of “Warner’s -Library of the World’s Best Literature,” he supplied -the articles on Madison Cawein, John Masefield, -William Vaughn Moody and Francis Thompson. -He contributed prefaces to various volumes -of standard authors. Excellent examples of this -department of his activity are his Introduction to -Thomas Hardy’s “The Mayor of Casterbridge” in -the Modern Library, his introduction to the American -edition of the “Verses” of Hilaire Belloc, and -the introduction to the volume “Dreams and Images,” -his anthology of Catholic poets. The Introduction -to this Anthology is dated 165th Regiment, -Camp Mills, Mineola, N. Y., August, 1917, just a -year before Sergeant Kilmer’s death in battle. -Doubtless few know that at one time Kilmer had -drawn a contract to write a “Life” of Father Tabb. -Because of peculiar complications in the situation -this enterprise, most unfortunately, fell through. -In 1916 Kilmer was called to the faculty of the -School of Journalism of New York University, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -succession to Arthur Guiterman, to lecture on -“Magazine and Newspaper Verse.” The object of -the course, which was open to outsiders as well as -to those enrolled in the School of Journalism, was -to familiarise the students with the practical side of -writing verse for publication.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>It seems rather a misnomer, and something of -an absurdity, to say that Kilmer was ever neutral -in anything. But in the political sense he was a -neutral, and, if it may be put that way, neutral to -a pronounced degree, preceding the entrance of the -United States into the war. His keen feeling for -the sturdy virtues and robust customs of Old England, -Merrie England, was of course, patent. His -delight in London, and the English countryside, -which he knew from a child, was manifest. The -pillars of his fairly large literature were, of course, -English. His profound sense of integrity was violently -jolted by the violation of Belgium. As the -war went on, however, he developed an attitude -which was quite capable of being interpreted as -Pro-German, by anyone interested in so interpreting -it. The explanation of this attitude is simple -enough. Instinctively a combative character intellectually,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span> -his humorous essays, which expressed him -so intimately, almost without exception found their -spring in his running counter to some current idea. -As he one time remarked, he was “bored by feminism, -futurism, free love;” and, too, he was invariably -for the under dog. It may seem rather grotesque -to present Germany by implication as an -under dog in the early years of the war; the point is, -the force of the argument was so overwhelmingly -against Germany that Kilmer reacted to this in a -characteristic fashion, stood boldly against the current, -and was, in fact, a neutral—until the sinking -of the Lusitania. All reports agree, including even -reports from sources of strong anti-English feeling -where Kilmer’s inclination to see what could be said -for Germany was coveted, that from this point on -his manner was altogether hostile to Germany. -Outside of his Lusitania poem he did not, so far as -I know, denounce the deed; but the unanimity and -the precision with which the change in him is fixed -by all who observed him is striking.</p> - -<p>Kilmer’s successive literary passions were a curious -medley. He seemed to have been born with a -great love for Scott, and he held stoutly to Sir -Walter throughout the years. In his burly days he -found a humorous sport in defending, with jovial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -emphasis, the old-fashioned chivalrous romance -against the scientific modern novel. In his æsthetic -period he had a touch, hardly more, of Oscar Wilde, -though early in his literary career he experienced a -rather severe case of Swinburneitus. Some time -shortly after this he was very much intrigued by the -Celtic revival. Shaemas O’Sheel, a friend dating -back to Columbia days, bears testimony that an -early boast of Kilmer’s was that an ancestor of his -had been hanged for taking a rebel’s part in ’ninety-eight. -And though as we know, Kilmer’s immediate -ancestry was not Irish, a Gaelic enthusiast -who has made a specialty of the Irish language, suggests -in his ardour, that the name Kilmer is a derivation -of Mac Gilla Mor. At any rate, an affection -for Ireland—her literature, her lore, her traditions, -and her people—was indeed natural with him.</p> - -<p>In his Yeats period Kilmer had about chosen -“Nine Bean Rows” as the name of his house then in -the course of construction, though it was not altogether -“of clay and wattles made.” The thing -which deterred him from this decision was that persons -unacquainted with the poem “Innisfree,” to -whom he spoke of the matter, conceived his address -as Number Nine Beanrose Avenue. What a funny -street, they said, that is. Literary merely, of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -course, that; and though a part of the whole, remote -from later, deeper and graver things. Something -inherently Irish in Kilmer undoubtedly was -felt by many, Irish themselves and very much so, -who, in some cases, are “quite certain” that the fact -of their being Irish was the reason why he regarded -them and their work as writers with friendship. -He did, indeed, like all manner of Irish. He liked -the Irish fairies, he liked Lady Gregory, he liked -most decidedly the poor Irish people who went to -the Catholic church, and (as he later showed), of -all soldiers, Irish soldiers he liked best.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Romantic Ireland is not old;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For years untold her youth will shine,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The blood of martyrs is her wine.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Everything chivalrous and sacrificial appealing -to his deepest instincts, he felt noble “delight in -hopes that were vain.” It is not at all improbable -that had he been an Irishman born and resident in -Ireland he would have been among the martyrs of -Easter Week. In certain qualities of his soul a kinship -with these spirits may readily be traced. -Some of them, I have been told, he knew personally; -and his reverence for Plunkett he has written.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no rope can strangle song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And not for long death takes his toll;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No prison bars can dim the stars,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor quicklime eat the living soul.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">And all that Kilmer wrote, every line of it, he wrote -in two ways; he wrote it in words, and he wrote it in -his acts. When the idea of the Poets’ Meeting to -express the sympathy of American poets with the -three Irish martyred poets of Easter Week, Pearse, -MacDonough and Plunkett, first occurred to -Eleanor Rogers Cox, she asked Kilmer’s advice -about it over the telephone. And he said, “Go -ahead, I’ll back you up,” with the result that the -meeting, a success, took place in Central Park, with -Edwin Markham presiding, Kilmer, Margaret -Widdemer, Miss Cox, Louis Untermeyer, and -many other representative poets taking part.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is a woman’s work,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There was Byron, who left all his lady-loves, to fight against the Turk,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And David, the singing king of the Jews, who was born with a sword in his hand.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> - <div class="verse indent0">It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Sir Philip Sidney’s lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Indeed, in the logical scheme of things (or, at any -rate, in Joyce Kilmer’s scheme of things) the poet -is a soldier, an idealist with the courage of his song; -and, in a manner of speaking, all soldiers are poets, -whether or not they ever pen a line, for they give -supreme expression to the conviction of their soul. -And then, as Christopher Morley has finely written -in his tribute to Kilmer, “the poet must go where -the greatest songs are singing.” To anyone who -knew Kilmer it would have been perfectly dumfounding -if, when war was declared between his -country and Germany, he had <em>not</em> done exactly as -he did. It is inconceivable—to picture him moving -about here, from restaurant to office, in this hour. -Flatly, the thing can’t be done. With him, when -he joined the army, it was only one fight more, the -best, and as it proved, the last.</p> - -<p>He hated many things, but I believe that of all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -things he hated most a pacifist—a pacifist in anything. -He was a fighter. He fought for his home, -stone by stone; he fought for his renown. His conception -of the church was the Church Militant. His -thoughts dwelt continually on warrior-saints. He -believed in the nobility of war and the warrior’s calling, -so long as the cause was holy, or believed to be -holy. As he saw it, there was no question as to his -duty. This I know, you might as well have asked -Niagara Falls why it pours over its ledge, as have -discussed with Kilmer the matter of his going to -war. That was, in its way, just such another force -of nature. As to what might happen to him, it is -hardly necessary to remark that his faith told him -that that would be all right, too. John Bunker was -among the last to bid him farewell. There is the -Kilmerian splendour in what he wrote:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You didn’t pose, self-conscious of your lot,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Or speak of what might be or might have been;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You always thought heroics simply rot,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And so you merely wore your old-time grin.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Kilmer had first joined the Officers’ Reserve -Training corps. He soon resigned from this. In -less than three weeks after the United States entered -the war he enlisted as a private in the Seventh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -Regiment, National Guard, New York. His own -statement was: “I haven’t time for Plattsburg: had -too much work to finish, but I had to get in.” The -Regiment was mustered into the Federal Service on -July 15, 1917; and Kilmer expected to go to training -camp somewhere in the South for a couple of -months, then to be sent to “France, or Russia, or -Cuba, or Mexico or somewhere else.” He had a -great distaste for going to Russia, because he disliked -cold climates. He one time expressed a decided -aversion to a book commonly held to be quite -good. When asked what was the matter with it, he -denounced it as being about “one of those cold -countries.” It would not, of course, have been Kilmer -had he not found elation in the distinguished -and picturesque character of the crack regiment to -which he belonged. “We are the oldest outfit in the -Guard—Lafayette reviewed us in 1824 and Joffre -two weeks ago.” If you had not seen the dress uniform -of “the Seventh” you heard all about it at -lunch. And “hard newspaper man” as he was, he -became even “harder” now. “Can’t hurt my feelings,” -he wrote requesting a friend to be quite frank -with him. “Hard military character, seriously considering -acquisition of habit of chewing tobacco.”</p> - -<p>Shortly before the Seventh left New York for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span> -Spartanburg, South Carolina, Kilmer was transferred, -at his own request, to the 165th Infantry, -U. S. A., formerly the famous old “Fighting Sixty-ninth,” -New York, a unit of the Rainbow Division, -assembled at Camp Mills, Mineola, Long Island. -He was most particular to impress upon his friends -the point that he had been transferred at his own -volition. I do not know that he ever said so, in so -many words, but I gathered from him the impression -that a considerable part of his motive in having -himself transferred was occasioned by his belief that -the 165th would go sooner than the Seventh to the -battlefield. Then, too, as we know, he was “half -Irish”; and an Irish-American regiment doubtless -was a powerful magnet to him. In the 165th the -people he liked best of all were “the wild Irish boys -who left Ireland a few years ago, some of them to -escape threatened conscription, and travelled about -the country in gangs, generally working on the railroads. -They have delightful songs that have never -been written down, but sung in vagabonds’ camps -and country jails. I have got some of the songs -down and hope to get more—‘The Boston Burglar’—‘Sitting -in My Cell All Alone’—they are a fine, -a veritable Irish-American folk-lore.”</p> - -<p>Kilmer at this time was the father of four children,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -named respectively Kenton Sinclair, Rose, -Deborah Clanton and Michael Barry. One day he -appeared in my office on an errand of business relating -to the handling of his literary property. He -was, in outward effect, perfectly composed, an admirable -picture of a young soldier. It was then, in -what followed, that he displayed the most extraordinary, -the most amazing, measure of spiritual stature -that I ever observed in any man or ever read -of in any human book. Settled, with his customary -air, in my chair, he demanded some pipe tobacco. -I had none. And for this he heartily damned me -out. Then he said: “Bob, my affairs are somewhat -in disarray.” Thinking that perhaps he wanted to -borrow two dollars, or something like that, I asked: -“What’s the matter, Joyce?” “Well,” he answered, -quite in his ordinary way, “several days ago Rose -died; yesterday my son, Christopher, was born; -Kenton is with my wife at her mother’s; my family -is, in fact, very much scattered; I’m expecting to -go to France within a few days—and I have many -other difficulties.” That was all he said as to this. -He then talked excellent business. I went to the -elevator with him. We shook hands more quietly -than usual; he said, “Good-bye, Bob;” and the door -of the car closed upon him, standing erect in his military<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span> -overcoat, looking somewhat serious. That -was all.</p> - -<p>From Company H. Kilmer was transferred, -within a short time, to Headquarters Company, and -exchanged his eight hours a day of violent physical -exercise (“most deadening to the brain, a useful -anodyne for one, coming as it did after my grief,” -he wrote in an intimate letter) for exacting but “interesting” -statistical work. Though called Senior -Regimental Statistician he continued to rank as a -private. His work was under the direction of the -Regimental Chaplain, Father Francis Patrick -Duffy. He was thankful, he wrote from Mineola -in a letter at this time, that he was not with the -Seventh at Spartanburg, as from Mineola he could -telephone to his wife every night, and he said: “I’ll -be an accomplished cuss when I get back from the -wars—I’ll know how to typewrite and to serve Mass -and to sing the ‘Boston Burglar.’”</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>It was “the pleasantest war he had ever attended,” -so he wrote back from France. “Nice war, -nice people, nice country, nice everything,” he said -on the back of a postcard. To the Reverend James<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span> -J. Daly he wrote, “When I next visit Campion, -I’ll teach you (in addition to ‘The Boston Burglar’) -an admirable song called ‘Down in the Heart of -the Gas-House District.’ I sing it beautifully.” -And “as a common soldier, I have the privilege of -intimacy with the French peasants—and I find -them edifyingly good Catholics.” But his pleasures -in war he has told, as none but the author of -“Trees” and “Main Street” could tell them, in his -letters. What he never told must be read between -the lines. When the war was over, he said, he never -wanted again to go far away from Browne’s Chop -House and Shanley’s Bar. Though it is firmly held -in the background, there is in all that he wrote from -France, it seems to me, a reflection that his life was, -so to say, somewhat in disarray. And clearly -enough, though proudly, too, in the few poems -that he sent back he spoke his body’s pain:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Upon his will he binds a radiant chain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It is his task, the slave of liberty,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With his own blood to wipe away a stain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To banish war, he must a warrior be;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And gladly dies, abundant life to gain.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span></p> - -<p class="in0">And:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My shoulders ache beneath my pack</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I march with feet that burn and smart</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(Tread, Holy feet, upon my heart).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Men shout at me who may not speak</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I may not lift a hand to clear</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My eyes of salty drops that sear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">(Then shall my fickle soul forget</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?)</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My rifle hand is stiff and numb</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come).</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">And in the closing lines of this poem certainly is -given, as fully as anything can be told in this world, -the answer to the question, How did the war most -affect Joyce <span class="locked">Kilmer?—</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than all the hosts of land and sea.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So let me render back again</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span></p> -<p>Though he said, “I have very little chance to read -contemporary poetry out here,” he did read, as he -says, “what do you suppose? The ‘Oxford Book of -English Verse.’” And he hoped that contemporary -poetry was</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="in0">reflecting the virtues which are blossoming on the -blood-soaked soil of this land—courage, and self-abnegation, -and love, and faith—this last not faith -in some abstract goodness, but faith which God -Himself founded and still rules. France has turned -to her ancient faith with more passionate devotion -than she has shown for centuries. I believe that -America is learning the same lesson from war, and -is cleansing herself of cynicism and pessimism and -materialism and the lust for novelty which has -hampered our national development. I hope that -our poets already see this tendency and rejoice in -it—if they do not they are unworthy of their craft.</p> -</div> - -<p>“Just what effect the war would have had on Kilmer -had he been spared is of course an entirely elusive -topic,” has said one very able and on the whole -most valuable commentator, speaking from the -testimony then in hand, and voicing, I fancy, an -idea still rather general. It is not now, I think, an -elusive topic at all, but a matter as plain as a pikestaff. -And the matter is, by the way, the second of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -the two most indispensable pages in Kilmer’s story. -It is a page in which his character underwent another -metamorphosis as consequential in its effect -on his talent even, if that could be possible, as his -conversion to the Catholic faith.</p> - -<p>Kilmer left the United States a professional -writer from his twenty-third year, and one of the -most accomplished, prolific and industrious journalists -of his day. Writing with him had become a -habit almost as natural as speech. It was his intention -when he left New York to write a war book. -He discussed this project with his publishers even -so definitely as to have settled upon a title: “Here -and There With the Fighting Sixty-Ninth.” As -time passed it became puzzling why no “copy” of -any kind came from him. And as still more time -passed this matter assumed for me an element of -more than considerable mystery. It was incomprehensible -because none of the reasons which would -ordinarily apply in such a situation explained Kilmer’s -case to me. If it had been anyone else I -should have concluded that he was unable to find -time to write anything. But precisely the point -about Kilmer was that he did the impossible: it was -quite his habit to, in the racy phrase, “get away -with” situations which would have floored anyone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> -else. It was to my mind an illogical hypothesis that -he could be frustrated by obstacles. And I felt -that, inexplicable as it was for Kilmer to fail in -anything or to neglect any opportunity, he was -here failing in justice to his career. How was it in -fact? As it had always been. He was receiving the -light opened to him. There could not be, I submit, -any more telling proof that he had genius, the capacity -to become an absolutely great writer, than -this: that in this war which has prompted more people -to write, and has produced more “copy” than -nearly all the other events of history put together, -he ceased altogether to be a journalist of any kind; -that is, even the instinct of the journalist dropped -from him, when he touched it.</p> - -<p>He had had no thought, he says, of attempting to -report the war: “If I had, I’d have come over as a -correspondent instead of as a soldier.” All his days -he had been trying to get closer and closer to the -heart of life. In the war his profound instinct for -humanity found fulfilment. Of his close comrades -he writes: “Say a prayer for them all, they’re brave -men and good, and splendid company. Danger -shared together and hardships mutually borne develops -in us a sort of friendship I never knew in -civilian life, a friendship clean of jealousy and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span> -gossip and envy and suspicion—a fine, hearty, roaring, -mirthful sort of thing, like an open fire of whole -pine-trees in a giant’s castle.”</p> - -<p>He was at present “a poet trying to be a soldier.” -“To tell the truth, I am not at all interested in writing -nowadays, except in so far as writing is the expression -of something beautiful. And I see daily -and nightly the expression of beauty in action instead -of words, and I find it more satisfactory.”</p> - -<p>“My days of hack writing are over, for a time at -least.” Upon his return to civilian life his civilian -work “may be straight reporting.” As for “that -mob of war writers (thank God—let me pharisaically -say—that I am not one of them).” The book? -“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!”</p> - -<p>Kilmer’s “Holy Ireland,” a sketch of a lodging -for the night enjoyed by a little group of Irish-American -soldiers at a farmhouse in France, is the -only piece of prose writing of any extent at all that -came from him overseas. He himself wrote of it to -his publishers: “I sent you a prose sketch ‘Holy -Ireland,’ which represents the best prose writing I -can do nowadays.” It is unmistakably a piece of -literature, that is to say, though slight enough in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -substance, a work of firm and exquisite and enduring -art.</p> - -<p>In a letter to the Reverend Edward F. Garesché, -S.J., one of the last he wrote, the following paragraphs -occur:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I have written very little—two prose sketches and -two poems—since I left the States, but I have a -rich store of memories. Not that what I write -matters—I have discovered, since some unforgettable -experiences, that writing is not the tremendously -important thing I once considered it. You -will find me less a bookman when you next see me, -and more, I hope, a man.</p> -</div> - -<p class="in0">And he ends with these words: “Pray for me, my -dear Father, that I may love God more and that I -may be unceasingly conscious of Him—that is the -greatest desire I have.”</p> - -<p>Though he gloried in being a private soldier, it is -quite evident, too, that he was charmed with his promotion. -“I am now a sergeant,” appears on the -back of every copy of the well-known “tin-hat” -post-card, and in every letter near this date. In -more than one intimate letter he says: “I’ll never be -anything higher. To get a commission I’d have to -go away for three months to school, and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span> -whether or not I was made an officer—I’d be sent to -some outfit other than this, and I don’t want to leave -this crowd. I’d rather be a sergeant in the 69th -than a lieutenant in any other regiment in the -world.” “A volunteer regiment, the bravest and -best regiment in the army.” “I have a new stripe—an -inverted chevron of bright gold on the left cuff -for six months’ service ... let my children be -proud of it.” And, “a long moustache I have.”</p> - -<p>For a while he had worked in the Adjutant’s -Office, having special charge of recording and reporting -statistics. Then he was no longer (“thank -God!”) doing statistics. Someone over here had -said that he had “a bullet-proof job.” “I had one, -but succeeded, after two months intriguing, in getting -rid of it.” “At that time I was just an office -hack—now I am a soldier, in the most fascinating -branch of the service there is—sheer romance, night -and day—especially night.” He had become attached -to the Regimental Intelligence Section, -working as an observer—“very amusing work,” -“wonderful life!”—“the finest job in the army!” -But “I don’t know what I’ll be able to do in civilian -life—unless I become a fireman!” “I am having -a delightful time, but it won’t break my heart -for the war to end.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span></p> - -<p>“Rouge Bouquet” was his “first attempt at versification -in a dug-out.” He had lived in “billets, -dug-outs, trenches, observatories and all sorts of -queer places.” And at length, he was “(after a -most violent and amusing month) resting (six hours -out of every twenty-four!) in a beautiful place, -among the firs and pines on a lovely mountain top, -from which I can see strange things.” “I sleep on a -couch made soft with deftly laid young spruce -boughs and eat at a table set under good, kind -trees.” And with that inimitable, irrepressible and -incomparable Kilmerian pleasure he contemplated -what he called “my senility”:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I picture myself at sixty, with a long white -moustache, a pale gray tweed suit, a very large -panama hat, I can see my gnarled but beautifully -groomed hands as they tremblingly pour out the -glass of dry sherry which belongs to every old man’s -breakfast. I cannot think of myself at seventy or -eighty—I grow hysterical with applause—I am -lost in a delirium of massive ebony canes, golden -snuff-boxes, and dainty silk hats.</p> -</div> - -<p>“When we first met over here,” wrote Kilmer’s -friend Charles L. O’Donnell, Chaplain 332d Infantry, -in a letter to Thomas Walsh which should be -written into the record, “he was in the personnel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -department of his regiment, having had his time -of service in the field and done some particularly -good work in the intelligence line. He was then -about to go into the intelligence permanently and so -avid of it was he as to be ready to relinquish his -hard-earned sergeant’s chevrons. In the event, -however, that sacrifice was not demanded. After -this change in his work he was much more agreeably -placed, in particular he had more freedom and more -time to see his friends. He was worshipped by the -men about him. I have heard them speak with awe -of his coolness and his nerve in scouting patrols in -No Man’s Land. As an intelligence man he made -personally a few very valuable discoveries: this was -when I was with him in our comparatively quiet -sector. I can only conceive that he distinguished -himself later in the larger opportunities that came -his way.” The letter continues:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="in0">We were both in the army but he was also of it. -I was amazed to find him so quickly become a soldier -with the soldier’s point of view. But he had -seen so much more than I, even then, and each day -in this war is equivalent to long campaigns of other -times. I felt, and was a rookie beside him. He had -got a perspective on his life at home that made him -smile with indulgent pity on some literary aspects<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -of it. I spoke of what must have been his earlier -views, the good he was doing and the need of doing -it. But he was not ready to relinquish a position he -had bought at the price of suffering, cold, hunger, -fatigue, with the hourly self denials that military -discipline means. Not that he spoke of these things -in this way, but I knew they had gone into the creation -of his new stand and I knew in my heart it was -higher ground.</p> -</div> - -<p>A closer witness is Sergeant-Major Lemist -Esler, who served side by side with Kilmer in the -Marne advance. Shortly afterward returned to the -United States for service as an instructor at an -army cantonment, he said in an interview in the -<i>New York Times</i>: “The front was his goal and no -sooner had the regiment reached France than he -made every possible effort to be transferred.”</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="in0">He finally had himself moved to the Intelligence -Department. It was in that department that he -was elevated to the rank of Sergeant. I was supply -sergeant at the time and Joyce Kilmer was a perfect -trial to me. He would always be doing more -than his orders called for—that is, getting much -nearer to the enemy’s positions than any officer -would ever be inclined to send him. Night after -night he would lie out in No Man’s Land, crawling -through barbed wires, in an effort to locate enemy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span> -positions, and enemy guns, and tearing his clothes -to shreds. On the following day he would come to -me for a new uniform.</p> -</div> - -<p>“There was something of what the Scots call ‘fey’ -about him as a soldier,” is the testimony of the -chaplain of the 165th Infantry, Father Duffy. -“He was absolutely the coolest and most indifferent -man in the face of danger I have ever seen. It was -not for lack of love of life, for he enjoyed his life as -a soldier—his only cross was distance from home. -It was partly from his inborn courage and devotion—he -would not stint his sacrifice—partly his deep -and real belief that what God wills is best.”</p> - -<p>Once Marshal Foch’s advance began, Kilmer -seems to have been constantly in the thick of the -fighting. In the <i>New York Evening Sun</i> of August -8 a correspondent told how a party composed -of Major Donovan, Joyce Kilmer and John Kayes -advanced to the edge of a wood and captured a -German dressed in an American uniform.</p> - -<p>“Joyce was one of those soldiers who had a romantic -love of death in battle,” Father Duffy has -added, “and it could not have missed him in time.” -No, the stars move in their appointed courses; and -there are certain things written aforetime. While<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span> -he had life there was a defiant hope among us who -knew his great gift for triumph that somehow this -would see him through, that even over the inevitable -he would prevail. But Destiny would not have been -her immemorial self had she stayed her tragic hand -from this shining figure, type and symbol in his taking -of her unscrutable ways with man. And, somehow, -in his death his life was all of a piece, and one -cannot but admire the poetic justice of his end.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Never fear but in the skies</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saints and angels stand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Smiling with their holy eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On this new-come band</div> - </div> - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Your souls shall be where the heroes are</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And your memory shine like the morning-star.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Sergeant Kilmer was killed in action near the -Ourcq, July 30, 1918. “He had,” runs the report -in <i>The Stars and Stripes</i>, the newspaper of the -American Expeditionary Force, “volunteered his -services to the major of the foremost battalion because -his own battalion would not be in the lead that -day.” From the report of Sergeant Esler and a -letter (printed in the <i>New York Times</i>) to a friend -in New York by Alexander Woollcott, dramatic<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span> -critic of the <i>Times</i> before his service abroad, the -facts are established.</p> - -<p>At the dawn of a misty Sunday, July 28, the -165th had made a gallant and irresistible charge -across the river and up the hill. In the height of -the great five days battle for the mastery of the -heights which followed Kilmer was killed. It so -happened that he was close to the Major when the -battalion adjutant fell and, in the emergency of the -battle, without commission or appointment, he was -serving as a sort of aid to the battalion commander. -Discovering that the woods ahead harboured some -machine guns, he had reported this fact, and was -sent in the lead of a patrol to establish their exact location. -When a couple of hours later the battalion -advanced into the woods to clear the spot of the enemy, -several of Kilmer’s comrades caught sight of -him lying, as if still scouting, with his eyes bent over -a little ridge. So like his living self he was, they -called to him, then ran up—to find him dead with a -bullet through his brain. He lies buried, we read, -beside Lieutenant Oliver Ames at the edge of a -little copse that is known as the Wood of the -Burned Bridge, so close to the purling Ourcq that, -standing by the graveside, one could throw a pebble -into its waters. Perhaps ten minutes walk to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -north lies the half obliterated village Seringes, captured -by American troops the night before Kilmer -was killed. Eloquent of affection in the making of -it, the grave is of course, marked by a wooden cross, -on which is written, “Sergeant Joyce Kilmer.” -Then, after the inscription of his company and regiment, -is the line: “Killed in Action—July 30, 1918.”</p> - -<p>It is not a rule to bury enlisted men with officers, -but Kilmer had won so much admiration and respect -not only from the enlisted men in his company -but also from the officers, that the commander of -the regiment authorised that his grave be dug on the -spot and that he be buried next to the grave of the -heroic Lieutenant who had just lost his life.</p> - -<p>Sergeant Woollcott was with the regiment in the -woods the day they came out of the line to catch -their breaths, and the news of Kilmer’s death, he -says, “greeted me on every turn. The Captain -under whom he had been serving for several months, -the Major at whose side he fell, stray cooks, doughboys, -runners—all shook their heads sorrowfully -and talked among themselves of what a good soldier -he had been and what an infinite pity it was that the -bullet had had to single him out. And in such days -as these, there are no platitudes of polite regret. -When men, good men and close pals, are falling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -about you by hundreds, when every man in the regiment -has come out of the fight the poorer for the -loss of not one but many friends, there is no time -to say pretty things about a man just because he -exists no longer. Death is too common to distinguish -anyone. So the glowing praise and admiration -I heard for Joyce was real—every word of it.”</p> - -<p>It is, I think, fitting to preserve in a form more -durable than its newspaper publication more of this -letter. It continues:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>I gathered that his stock among men of all ranks -had been climbing steadily from the first days when -many of them, including myself, felt that he was out -of his own element in a rip-roaring regiment. As -the regiment’s laureate, they all knew him and they -knew, too, that he was at work on a history of the -regiment. He had become quite an institution, with -his arms full of maps as they used to be full of minor -poetry, and his mouth full of that imperishable pipe.</p> - -<p>They all knew his verse. I found any number of -men who had only to fish around in their tattered -blouses to bring out the copy of a poem Kilmer -wrote in memory of some of their number who were -killed by a shell in March. You see that there is a -refrain which calls for bugle notes, and I am told -that at the funeral services, where the lines were first -read, the desperately sad notes of “Taps” sounded -faintly from a distant grave when the refrain invoked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span> -them. The lines were read by Joyce’s own -beloved Father Duffy, and those who were there -told me the tears streamed down the face of every -boy in the regiment. They just blubbered.</p> -</div> - -<h3>VIII</h3> - -<p>Indeed, such was the power of his spirit over -other men that even now he has become a legend, -his excellence a popular heritage, benefiting and -enriching human life. Writing with the pen of all -those who knew him in his overcoat of glory and -debonair hat, his friend Charles Willis Thompson -says: “I had a great affection and a deep admiration -and respect for him, different from that which -I had for anybody else I knew.” And expressing, -I think, the heart of innumerable ones who did not -chance his way, Booth Tarkington says: “But I had -a sense of him as of something fine and of fine -promise. I haven’t read much that he wrote; but -it was like knowing that there was a good picture -somewhere in a gallery that I hadn’t visited, but -might, some day.”</p> - -<p>The full beauty of his life is known only to God. -As religion was the first thing in his life let it be the -last thing said of him. In one of his last letters, -he wrote to Sister M. Emerentia of St. Joseph’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -College, Toronto, Ontario: “Pray that I may love -God more. It seems to me that if I can learn to love -God more passionately, more constantly, without -distractions, that absolutely nothing else can matter. -Except while we are in the trenches I receive Holy -Communion every morning, so it ought to be all the -easier for me to attain this object of my prayers. -I got Faith, you know, by praying for it. I hope to -get Love the same way.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="POEMS_FROM_FRANCE"><span class="larger">POEMS FROM FRANCE</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_105" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ROUGE_BOUQUET">ROUGE BOUQUET</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">In</span> a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is a new-made grave to-day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Built by never a spade nor pick</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There lie many fighting men,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Dead in their youthful prime,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Never to laugh nor love again</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor taste the Summertime.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For Death came flying through the air</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Touched his prey and left them there,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Clay to clay.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He hid their bodies stealthily</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the soil of the land they fought to free</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And fled away.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now over the grave abrupt and clear</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Three volleys ring;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And perhaps their brave young spirits hear</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The bugle sing:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Go to sleep!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Go to sleep!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You will not need them any more.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Danger’s past;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now at last,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Go to sleep!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is on earth no worthier grave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To hold the bodies of the brave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than this place of pain and pride</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where they nobly fought and nobly died.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Never fear but in the skies</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saints and angels stand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Smiling with their holy eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On this new-come band.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">St. Michael’s sword darts through the air</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And touches the aureole on his hair</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As he sees them stand saluting there,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His stalwart sons;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rejoice that in veins of warriors still</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Gael’s blood runs.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A delicate cloud of buglenotes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That softly say:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Farewell!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Farewell!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your souls shall be where the heroes are</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And your memory shine like the morning-star.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Brave and dear,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shield us here.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Farewell!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_108" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_PEACEMAKER">THE PEACEMAKER</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Upon</span> his will he binds a radiant chain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For Freedom’s sake he is no longer free.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It is his task, the slave of Liberty,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With his own blood to wipe away a stain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To banish war, he must a warrior be.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He dwells in Night, eternal Dawn to see,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And gladly dies, abundant life to gain.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And has for captain Him whose thorn-wreathed head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Smiles from the Cross upon a conquered world.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter illowe40" id="i_108"> - <img src="images/i_108.jpg" alt="" /> - <div class="captionl"> - <p class="in0 p1">FACSIMILE REPRODUCTION OF AN AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT<br /> - OF THE LAST POEM WRITTEN BY JOYCE KILMER</p></div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_109" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRAYER_OF_A_SOLDIER_IN_FRANCE">PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">My</span> shoulders ache beneath my pack</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I march with feet that burn and smart</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Men shout at me who may not speak</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I may not lift a hand to clear</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My eyes of salty drops that sear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">(Then shall my fickle soul forget</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?)</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">My rifle hand is stiff and numb</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come).</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Than all the hosts of land and sea.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So let me render back again</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_110" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WHEN_THE_SIXTY-NINTH_COMES">WHEN THE SIXTY-NINTH COMES -BACK</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> Sixty-ninth is on its way—France heard it long ago,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the Germans know we’re coming, to give them blow for blow.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We’ve taken on the contract, and when the job is through</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We’ll let them hear a Yankee cheer and an Irish ballad too.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant throng.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">We brought back from the Border our Flag—’twas never lost;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We left behind the land we love, the stormy sea we crossed.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We heard the cry of Belgium, and France the free and fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For where there’s work for fighting-men, the Sixty-ninth is there.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant throng.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The men who fought at Marye’s Heights will aid us from the sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They showed the world at Fredericksburg how Irish soldiers die.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">At Blackburn Ford they think of us, Atlanta and Bull Run;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There are many silver rings on the old flagstaff but there’s room for another one.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant throng.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> - <div class="verse indent2">With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">God rest our valiant leaders dead, whom we cannot forget;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They’ll see the Fighting Irish are the Fighting Irish yet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While Ryan, Roe, and Corcoran on History’s pages shine,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A wreath of laurel and shamrock waits the head of Colonel Hine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall fill the air with song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is neared by our triumphant throng.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the Kaiser in a sack,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">New York will be seen one Irish green when the Sixty-ninth comes back.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_113" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MIRAGE_DU_CANTONMENT">MIRAGE DU CANTONMENT</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Many</span> laughing ladies, leisurely and wise,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Low rich voice, delicate gay cries,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tea in fragile china cups, ices, macaroons,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sheraton and Heppelwhite and old thin spoons,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rather dim paintings on very high walls,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Windows showing lawns whereon the sunlight falls,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pink and silver gardens and broad kind trees,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And fountains scattering rainbows at the whim of a breeze,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fragrance, mirth and gentleness, a Summer day</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In a world that has forgotten everything but play.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="POEMS_AT_HOME"><span class="larger">POEMS AT HOME</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_117" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WARTIME_CHRISTMAS">WARTIME CHRISTMAS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">Led</span> by a star, a golden star,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The youngest star, an olden star,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Here the kings and the shepherds are,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Akneeling on the ground.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What did they come to the inn to see?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God in the Highest, and this is He,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A baby asleep on His mother’s knee</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And with her kisses crowned.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now is the earth a dreary place,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A troubled place, a weary place.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Peace has hidden her lovely face</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And turned in tears away.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet the sun, through the war-cloud, sees</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Babies asleep on their mother’s knees.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While there are love and home—and <span class="locked">these—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">There shall be Christmas Day.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_118" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MAIN_STREET">MAIN STREET<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For S. M. L.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I like</span> to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But it isn’t half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Because I think it is humaner than any other street.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And there wasn’t a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That Main Street didn’t remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They make the weary city street reverberate with pain:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher’s cart.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That’s the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_120" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ROOFS">ROOFS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Amelia Josephine Burr)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But I’m glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or else he’ll go into his tent when it is time for bed.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> - <div class="verse indent0">He’ll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And now and then there’s a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It’s a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_122" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SNOWMAN_IN_THE_YARD">THE SNOWMAN IN THE YARD<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Thomas Augustine Daly)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the Hales’ garage you could put my house and everything I own,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But when Winter comes, I have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And it’s better worth having than all their wealth—it’s a snowman in the yard.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The Judge’s money brings architects to make his mansion fair;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But I have something no architect or gardener ever made,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For the tiny house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To toil and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden’s gate is barred:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And through the Winter’s crystal veil, Love’s roses blossom red,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_124" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_BLUE_VALENTINE">A BLUE VALENTINE<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Monsignore,</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I respectfully salute you,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I genuflect</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I kiss your episcopal ring.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">It is not, Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fragrant memory of your holy life,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which causes me now to address you.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It seems appropriate to me to state</div> - <div class="verse indent0">According to a venerable and agreeable custom,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That I love a beautiful lady.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her eyes, Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On everything that she looks at,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Such as a wall</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or the moon</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or my heart.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span> - <div class="verse indent0">It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet not quite like it,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For the blueness is not transparent,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Only translucent.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her soul’s light shines through,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But her soul cannot be seen.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And noble.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Made in the manner of the Japanese.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is very <span class="locked">blue—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">I think that her eyes have made it more blue,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sweetly staining it</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Loving her, Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I love all her attributes;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But I believe</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That even if I did not love her</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I would love the blueness of her eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I have never before troubled you with a request.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span> - <div class="verse indent0">The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And your brother bishop, my patron,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Do me this favour:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When you this morning make your way</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses because of her who sits upon it,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I beg you, say to her:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For wearing a blue gown.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_127" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="HOUSES">HOUSES<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> you shall die and to the sky</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Serenely, delicately go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saint Peter, when he sees you there,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Will clash his keys and say:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Now talk to her, Sir Christopher!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And hurry, Michelangelo!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She wants to play at building,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And you’ve got to help her play!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Every architect will help erect</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A palace on a lawn of cloud,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With rainbow beams and a sunset roof,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And a level star-tiled floor;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And at your will you may use the skill</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of this gay angelic crowd,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When a house is made you will throw it down,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And they’ll build you twenty more.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For Christopher Wren and these other men</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who used to build on earth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Will love to go to work again</div> - <div class="verse indent2">If they may work for you.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“This porch,” you’ll say, “should go this way!”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And they’ll work for all they’re worth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And they’ll come to your palace every morning,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And ask you what to do.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And when night comes down on Heaven-town</div> - <div class="verse indent2">(If there should be night up there)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You will choose the house you like the best</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of all that you can see:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And its walls will glow as you drowsily go</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To the bed up the golden stair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I hope you’ll be gentle enough to keep</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A room in your house for me.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_128" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_MEMORY">IN MEMORY</h2> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Serene</span> and beautiful and very wise,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You lay and read your learned books, and bore</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The song within your heart could never rise</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor could you look on Beauty’s face before</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A poet’s burning mouth had touched your eyes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It is a linnet’s fluting after rain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Love’s voice is through your song; above and under</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And in each note to echo and remain.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Because Mankind is glad and brave and young,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">All joys and passions that Mankind may know</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By you were nobly felt and nobly sung.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Because Mankind’s heart every day is wrung</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By Fate’s wild hands that twist and tear it so,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Therefore you echoed Man’s undying woe,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A harp Aeolian on Life’s branches hung.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> - <div class="verse indent0">So did the ghosts of toiling children hover</div> - <div class="verse indent2">About the piteous portals of your mind;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The angry scar to which the world was blind:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And it was grief that made Mankind your lover,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And it was grief that made you love Mankind.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Before Christ left the Citadel of Light,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To tread the dreadful way of human birth,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And those who saw it wept with joy and fright.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Thou art Apollo, than the sun more bright!”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They cried. “Our music is of little worth,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou god of song, thou lord of lyric might!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O singing pilgrim! who could love and follow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Your lover Christ, through even love’s despair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You knew within the cypress-darkened hollow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The feet that on the mountain are so fair.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For it was Christ that was your own Apollo,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And thorns were in the laurel on your hair.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_131" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="APOLOGY">APOLOGY<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Eleanor Rogers Cox)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">For</span> blows on the fort of evil</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That never shows a breach,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For terrible life-long races</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To a goal no foot can reach,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For reckless leaps into darkness</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With hands outstretched to a star,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is jubilation in Heaven</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where the great dead poets are.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is joy over disappointment</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And delight in hopes that were vain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Each poet is glad there was no cure</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To stop his lonely pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For nothing keeps a poet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In his high singing mood</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like unappeasable hunger</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For unattainable food.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So fools are glad of the folly</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That made them weep and sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Drummond for his king.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> - <div class="verse indent0">They know that on flinty sorrow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And failure and desire</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The steel of their souls was hammered</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To bring forth the lyric fire.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">McDonough and Hunt and Pearse</div> - <div class="verse indent0">See now why their hatred of tyrants</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Was so insistently fierce.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is Freedom only a Will-o’-the-wisp</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To cheat a poet’s eye?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Be it phantom or fact, it’s a noble cause</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In which to sing and to die!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So not for the Rainbow taken</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the magical White Bird snared</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The poets sing grateful carols</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In the place to which they have fared;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But for their lifetime’s passion,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The quest that was fruitless and long,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They chorus their loud thanksgiving</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To the thorn-crowned Master of Song.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_133" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_PROUD_POET">THE PROUD POET<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Shaemas O’Sheel)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">One</span> winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Why don’t you take up fancy work, or embroidery?” he said,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">“For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“You little ugly Devil,” said I, “go back to Hell,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For the idea you express I will not listen to:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Without having to pay attention to orators like you.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman’s work</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There was Byron, who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> - <div class="verse indent2">And David, the Singing King of the Jews, who was born with a sword in his hand.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Sir Philip Sidney’s lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God’s mirth.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the title of poet’s a noble thing, worth living and dying for,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> - <div class="verse indent2">And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_137" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LIONEL_JOHNSON">LIONEL JOHNSON<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C.S.P.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap padr2"><span class="smcap1">There</span> was a murkier tinge in London’s air</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As if the honest fog blushed black for shame.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Fools sang of sin, for other fools’ acclaim,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Milton’s wreath was tossed to Baudelaire.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But in their midst a radiant lily came,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And was it Charles, thy “fair and fatal King,”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To take in his thine emulative hand?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or did Our Lady’s smile shine forth, to bring</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_138" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FATHER_GERARD_HOPKINS_SJ">FATHER GERARD HOPKINS, S.J.</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap padr2"><span class="smcap1">Why</span> didst thou carve thy speech laboriously,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And match and blend thy words with curious art?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For Song, one saith, is but a human heart</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From all who traffic in Apollo’s mart,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Singing His praise when other songs are done.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">O happy moth, that flew into the Sun!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_139" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="GATES_AND_DOORS">GATES AND DOORS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Richardson Little Wright)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There</span> was a gentle hostler</div> - <div class="verse indent2">(And blessèd be his name!)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He opened up the stable</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The night Our Lady came.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our Lady and Saint Joseph,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He gave them food and bed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Jesus Christ has given him</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A glory round his head.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>So let the gate swing open</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>However poor the yard,</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Lest weary people visit you</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>And find their passage barred;</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Unlatch the door at midnight</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>And let your lantern’s glow</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Shine out to guide the traveller’s feet</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>To you across the snow.</em></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There was a courteous hostler</div> - <div class="verse indent2">(He is in Heaven to-night)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He held Our Lady’s bridle</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And helped her to alight;</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> - <div class="verse indent0">He spread clean straw before her</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whereon she might lie down,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Jesus Christ has given him</div> - <div class="verse indent2">An everlasting crown.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Unlock the door this evening</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>And let your gate swing wide,</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Let all who ask for shelter</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>Come speedily inside.</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>What if your yard be narrow?</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>What if your house be small?</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>There is a Guest is coming</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>Will glorify it all.</em></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There was a joyous hostler</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who knelt on Christmas morn</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beside the radiant manger</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Wherein his Lord was born.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His heart was full of laughter,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His soul was full of bliss</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When Jesus, on His Mother’s lap,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Gave him His hand to kiss.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Unbar your heart this evening</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>And keep no stranger out,</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Take from your soul’s great portal</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>The barrier of doubt.</em></div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>To humble folk and weary</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>Give hearty welcoming,</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Your breast shall be to-morrow</em></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><em>The cradle of a King.</em></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_142" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ROBE_OF_CHRIST">THE ROBE OF CHRIST<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Cecil Chesterton)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">At</span> the foot of the Cross on Calvary</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Three soldiers sat and diced,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And one of them was the Devil</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And he won the Robe of Christ.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">When the Devil comes in his proper form</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To the chamber where I dwell,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I know him and make the Sign of the Cross</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Which drives him back to Hell.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And when he comes like a friendly man</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And puts his hand in mine,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fervour in his voice is not</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From love or joy or wine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And when he comes like a woman,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With lovely, smiling eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Black dreams float over his golden head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Like a swarm of carrion flies.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now many a million tortured souls</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In his red halls there be:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why does he spend his subtle craft</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In hunting after me?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Kings, queens and crested warriors</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whose memory rings through time,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These are his prey, and what to him</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is this poor man of rhyme,</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">That he, with such laborious skill,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Should change from rôle to rôle,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Should daily act so many a part</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To get my little soul?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh, he can be the forest,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And he can be the sun,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest</div> - <div class="verse indent2">When the weary day is done.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I saw him through a thousand veils,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And has not this sufficed?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, must I look on the Devil robed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In the radiant Robe of Christ?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He comes, and his face is sad and mild,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With thorns his head is crowned;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And in each hand a wound.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How can I tell, who am a fool,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">If this be Christ or no?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Those eyes that love me so!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I see the Robe—I look—I <span class="locked">hope—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">I fear—but there is one</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who will direct my troubled mind;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Christ’s Mother knows her Son.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O Mother of Good Counsel, lend</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Intelligence to me!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Encompass me with wisdom,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thou Tower of Ivory!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“This is the Man of Lies,” she says,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">“Disguised with fearful art:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He has the wounded hands and feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But not the wounded heart.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Beside the Cross on Calvary</div> - <div class="verse indent2">She watched them as they diced.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She saw the Devil join the game</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And win the Robe of Christ.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_145" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SINGING_GIRL">THE SINGING GIRL<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesché, S.J.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There</span> was a little maiden</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In blue and silver drest,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She sang to God in Heaven</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And God within her breast.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">It flooded me with pleasure,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It pierced me like a sword,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When this young maiden sang: “My soul</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Doth magnify the Lord.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The stars sing all together</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And hear the angels sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But they said they had never heard</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So beautiful a thing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Saint Elizabeth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pray for us poets now</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And at the hour of death.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_146" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ANNUNCIATION">THE ANNUNCIATION<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Helen Parry Eden)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“Hail</span> Mary, full of grace,” the Angel saith.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And human lips have trembled in God’s breath.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With thy white self, whereon no stain can be,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">About thy head celestial legions hover,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Chanting the praise of thy humility.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_147" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ROSES">ROSES<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Katherine Brègy)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I went</span> to gather roses and twine them in a ring,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That He wears a crown of linkèd thorns instead of one of gold.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_149" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_VISITATION">THE VISITATION<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Louise Imogen Guiney)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There</span> is a wall of flesh before the eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It is Our Lady’s painful bliss to bring</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Before mankind the Glory of the skies.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her cousin feels her womb’s sweet burden rise</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She knows her hidden God, and prophesies.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where life is withered by sin’s deadly breath.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Within our hearts, that we may conquer death.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_150" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MULTIPLICATION">MULTIPLICATION<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For S. M. E.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I take</span> my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_152" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THANKSGIVING">THANKSGIVING<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For John Bunker)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> roar of the world is in my ears.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thank God for the roar of the world!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thank God for the mighty tide of fears</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Against me always hurled!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the sting of His chastening rod!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Oh, thank God for God!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_153" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_THORN">THE THORN<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For the Rev. Charles L. O’Donnell, C.S.C.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> garden of God is a radiant place,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And every flower has a holy face:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rose-bush of God.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">David is the song upon God’s lips,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Gabriel’s the breath of His command,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But Saint Michael is the sword in God’s right hand.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The Ivory Tower is fair to see,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And may her walls encompass me!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saint Michael, show me how to fight!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_154" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BIG_TOP">THE BIG TOP</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By another’s hand shall colours stand in similitude of life;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world’s acclaim;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic <span class="locked">dress—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Well—here in a little side-show tent to-day some people stand,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate’s relentless hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_157" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MID-OCEAN_IN_WAR-TIME">MID-OCEAN IN WAR-TIME<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For My Mother)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> fragile splendour of the level sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The moon’s serene and silver-veilèd face,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Make of this vessel an enchanted place</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the old stars, in their unending race,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall heed and envy young humanity.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">These waters blush a strange and awful red.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And these stars smile their immemorial way</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_158" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="QUEEN_ELIZABETH_SPEAKS">QUEEN ELIZABETH SPEAKS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">My</span> hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My soul is black with shame ... but I gave Shakespeare gold.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So after æons of flame, I may, by grace of God,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare’s feet have trod.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_159" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_MEMORY_OF_RUPERT_BROOKE">IN MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">In</span> alien earth, across a troubled sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His body lies that was so fair and young.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His arm is still, that struck to make men free.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But let no cloud of lamentation be</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where, on a warrior’s grave, a lyre is hung.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We keep the vision of his chivalry.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So Israel’s joy, the loveliest of kings,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And David rests beneath Eternal wings,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_160" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_NEW_SCHOOL">THE NEW SCHOOL<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For My Mother)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span> - <div class="verse indent0">And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They have taken their youth and mirth away from the study and playing-ground</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts with laughing eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod;</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> - <div class="verse indent0">They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A flame that they took with strong young hands from the altar-fires of God.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_163" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="EASTER_WEEK">EASTER WEEK<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container narrow20"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">(“<i>Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>It’s with O’Leary in the grave.</i>”)</div> - </div> - <div class="attrib"><span class="smcap">William Butler Yeats.</span></div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">“Romantic</span> Ireland’s dead and gone,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It’s with O’Leary in the grave.”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A hue so radiantly brave?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There was a rain of blood that day,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Red rain in gay blue April weather.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It blessed the earth till it gave birth</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To valour thick as blooms of heather.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Romantic Ireland never dies!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">O’Leary lies in fertile ground,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And songs and spears throughout the years</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Rise up where patriot graves are found.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Immortal patriots newly dead</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And ye that bled in bygone years,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What banners rise before your eyes?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">What is the tune that greets your ears?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The young Republic’s banners smile</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For many a mile where troops convene.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O’Connell Street is loudly sweet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With strains of Wearing of the Green.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The soil of Ireland throbs and glows</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With life that knows the hour is here</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To strike again like Irishmen</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For that which Irishmen hold dear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord Edward leaves his resting place</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Sarsfield’s face is glad and fierce.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">See Emmet leap from troubled sleep</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no rope can strangle song</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And not for long death takes his toll.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No prison bars can dim the stars</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor quicklime eat the living soul.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Romantic Ireland is not old.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For years untold her youth will shine.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The blood of martyrs is her wine.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_165" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CATHEDRAL_OF_RHEIMS">THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIMS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(From the French of Émile Verhaeren)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">He</span> who walks through the meadows of Champagne</div> - <div class="verse indent2">At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sees it draw near</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like some great mountain set upon the plain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From radiant dawn until the close of day,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nearer it grows</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To him who goes</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Across the country. When tall towers lay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Their shadowy pall</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon his way,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He enters, where</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The solid stone is hollowed deep by all</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whose mighty hand Saint Remy’s hand did keep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">An echo of the voice of Charlemagne.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For God thou hast known fear, when from His side</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But still the sky was bountiful and blue</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And thou wast crowned with France’s love and pride.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The brows of saints with venerable names,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And in the night erect a fiery wall.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A great but silent fervour burns in all</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And know that down below, beside the <span class="locked">Rhine—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in <span class="locked">line—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Suddenly, each knows fear;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The hostile banners blaze against the sky</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And by the embassies mobs rage and cry.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now war has come, and peace is at an end.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On Paris town the German troops descend.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> - <div class="verse indent0">They are turned back, and driven to Champagne.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And now, as to so many weary men,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The glorious temple gives them welcome, when</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It meets them at the bottom of the plain.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">At once, they set their cannon in its way.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">There is no gable now, nor wall</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That does not suffer, night and day,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are circled, hour by hour,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With thundering bands of fire</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Death is scattered broadcast among men.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And then</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That which was splendid with baptismal grace;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The stately arches soaring into space,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Virgin’s gentle hands, the Saints’ pure faces,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Were struck and broken by the wanton sword</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of sacrilegious lust.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O beauty slain, O glory in the dust!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The crawling flames, like adders glistening</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now from its soul arose a piteous moan,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The soul that always loved the just and fair.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Granite and marble loud their woe confessed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The horror everywhere did range and swell,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The guardian Saints into this furnace fell,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The burning sun reflects the lurid scene;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The German army, fighting for its life,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rallies its torn and terrified left wing;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And, as they near this place</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The imperial eagles see</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Before them in their flight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Here, in the solemn night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The old cathedral, to the years to be</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_169" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="KINGS">KINGS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For the Rev. James B. Dollard)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> Kings of the earth are men of might,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And cities are burned for their delight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the skies rain death in the silent night,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the hills belch death all day!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But the King of Heaven, Who made them all,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is fair and gentle, and very small;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He lies in the straw, by the oxen’s <span class="locked">stall—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">Let them think of Him to-day!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_170" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WHITE_SHIPS_AND_THE_RED">THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Alden March)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">With</span> drooping sail and pennant</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That never a wind may reach,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They float in sunless waters</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beside a sunless beach.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their mighty masts and funnels</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are white as driven snow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And with a pallid radiance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Their ghostly bulwarks glow.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here is a Spanish galleon</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That once with gold was gay,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Here is a Roman trireme</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whose hues outshone the day.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But Tyrian dyes have faded,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And prows that once were bright</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With rainbow stains wear only</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Death’s livid, dreadful white.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">White as the ice that clove her</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That unforgotten day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Among her pallid sisters</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The grim <i>Titanic</i> lay.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> - <div class="verse indent0">And through the leagues above her</div> - <div class="verse indent2">She looked aghast, and said:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“What is this living ship that comes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where every ship is dead?”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The ghostly vessels trembled</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From ruined stern to prow;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What was this thing of terror</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That broke their vigil now?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Down through the startled ocean</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A mighty vessel came,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not white, as all dead ships must be,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But red, like living flame!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The pale green waves about her</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Were swiftly, strangely dyed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By the great scarlet stream that flowed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From out her wounded side.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And all her decks were scarlet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And all her shattered crew.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She sank among the white ghost ships</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And stained them through and through.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The grim <i>Titanic</i> greeted her.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">“And who art thou?” she said;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Arrayed in living red?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span> - <div class="verse indent0">We are the ships of sorrow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who spend the weary night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Until the dawn of Judgment Day,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Obscure and still and white.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Nay,” said the scarlet visitor,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">“Though I sink through the sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A ruined thing that was a ship,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I sink not as did ye.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For ye met with your destiny</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By storm or rock or fight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So through the lagging centuries</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Ye wear your robes of white.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“But never crashing iceberg</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor honest shot of foe,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor hidden reef has sent me</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The way that I must go.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My wound that stains the waters,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">My blood that is like flame,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bear witness to a loathly deed,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A deed without a name.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“I went not forth to battle,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I carried friendly men,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The children played about my decks,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The women sang—and <span class="locked">then—</span></div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span> - <div class="verse indent0">And then—the sun blushed scarlet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Heaven hid its face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The world that God created</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Became a shameful place!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“My wrong cries out for vengeance,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The blow that sent me here</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Has reached Jehovah’s ear.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not all the seven oceans</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shall wash away that stain;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Upon a brow that wears a crown</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I am the brand of Cain.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">When God’s great voice assembles</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The fleet on Judgment Day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The ghosts of ruined ships will rise</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In sea and strait and bay.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Though they have lain for ages</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beneath the changeless flood,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They shall be white as silver,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But one—shall be like blood.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_174" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE">THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Edward J. Wheeler)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Within</span> the Jersey City shed</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The engine coughs and shakes its head.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The smoke, a plume of red and white,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Waves madly in the face of night.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And now the grave incurious stars</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Against the kind and awful reign</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of darkness, this our angry train,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A noisy little rebel, pouts</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Its brief defiance, flames and <span class="locked">shouts—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">And passes on, and leaves no trace.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For darkness holds its ancient place,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Serene and absolute, the king</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Unchanged, of every living thing.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The houses lie obscure and still</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our lamps intensify the dark</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of slumbering Passaic Park.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And quiet holds the weary feet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That daily tramp through Prospect Street.</div> - <div class="verse indent0 padr4">What though we clang and clank and roar</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through all Passaic’s streets? No door</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Will open, not an eye will see</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who this loud vagabond may be.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Upon my crimson cushioned seat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In manufactured light and heat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I feel unnatural and mean.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Outside the towns are cool and clean;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Curtained awhile from sound and sight</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They take God’s gracious gift of night.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The stars are watchful over them.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On Clifton as on Bethlehem</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The angels, leaning down the sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shed peace and gentle dreams. And <span class="locked">I—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">I ride, I blasphemously ride</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through all the silent countryside.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pollute the still nocturnal air.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The cottages of Lake View sigh</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And sleeping, frown as we pass by.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why, even strident Paterson</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rests quietly as any nun.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her foolish warring children keep</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The grateful armistice of sleep.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For what tremendous errand’s sake</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are we so blatantly awake?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What precious secret is our freight?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What king must be abroad so late?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And we rush forth to give him fight.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or else, perhaps, we speed his way</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To some remote unthinking prey.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps a woman writhes in pain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And listens—listens for the train!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The train, that like an angel sings,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The train, with healing on its wings.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He hurries yawning through the car</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And steps out where the houses are.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This is the reason of our quest!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not wantonly we break the rest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of town and village, nor do we</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Lightly profane night’s sanctity.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What Love commands the train fulfills,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And beautiful upon the hills</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are these our feet of burnished steel.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Subtly and certainly I feel</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That Glen Rock welcomes us to her</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And silent Ridgewood seems to stir</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And smile, because she knows the train</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Has brought her children back again.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We carry people home—and so</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God speeds us, wheresoe’er we go.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Houses that wistfully demand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A father—son—some human thing</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That this, the midnight train, may bring.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The trains that travel in the day</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They hurry folks to work or play.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The midnight train is slow and old,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But of it let this thing be told,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To its high honor be it said,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It carries people home to bed.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My cottage lamp shines white and clear.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God bless the train that brought me here.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_178" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PENNIES">PENNIES</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A few</span> long-hoarded pennies in his hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Behold him stand;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The joy that once he had,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The first delight of ownership is fled.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He bows his little head.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah, cruel Time, to kill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That splendid thrill!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then in his tear-dimmed eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent0">New lights arise.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He drops his treasured pennies on the ground,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They roll and bound</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And scattered, rest.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now with what zest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He runs to find his errant wealth again!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So unto men</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Doth God, depriving that He may bestow.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fame, health and money go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But that they may, new found, be newly sweet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yea, at His feet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And gain on loss.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What is the key to Everlasting Life?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A blood-stained Cross.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_180" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TREES">TREES<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I think</span> that I shall never see</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A poem lovely as a tree.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A tree whose hungry mouth is prest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A tree that looks at God all day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And lifts her leafy arms to pray;</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A tree that may in Summer wear</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A nest of robins in her hair;</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Upon whose bosom snow has lain;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who intimately lives with rain.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Poems are made by fools like me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But only God can make a tree.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_181" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="STARS">STARS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S.J.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Bright</span> stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are you errant strands of Lady Mary’s hair?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now and then a wingéd child turns his merry face</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Down toward the spinning world—what a funny place!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Christ’s Troop, Mary’s Guard, God’s own men,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Every steel-born spark that flies where God’s battles are,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_183" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="OLD_POETS">OLD POETS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Robert Cortes Holliday)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">If</span> I should live in a forest</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And sleep underneath a tree,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No grove of impudent saplings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Would make a home for me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I’d go where the old oaks gather,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Serene and good and strong,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And they would not sigh and tremble</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And vex me with a song.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The pleasantest sort of poet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is the poet who’s old and wise,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With an old white beard and wrinkles</div> - <div class="verse indent2">About his kind old eyes.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For these young flippertigibbets</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A-rhyming their hours away</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They won’t be still like honest men</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And listen to what you say.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The young poet screams forever</div> - <div class="verse indent2">About his sex and his soul;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And polishes its bowl.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There should be a club for poets</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who have come to seventy year.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They should sit in a great hall drinking</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Red wine and golden beer.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They would shuffle in of an evening,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Each one to his cushioned seat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And there would be mellow talking</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And silence rich and sweet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no peace to be taken</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With poets who are young,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For they worry about the wars to be fought</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the songs that must be sung.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But the old man knows that he’s in his chair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And that God’s on His throne in the sky.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So he sits by the fire in comfort</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And he lets the world spin by.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_185" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DELICATESSEN">DELICATESSEN</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Why</span> is that wanton gossip Fame</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So dumb about this man’s affairs?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why do we twitter at his name</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who come to buy his curious wares?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here is a shop of wonderment.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From every land has come a prize;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rich spices from the Orient,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And fruit that knew Italian skies,</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And figs that ripened by the sea</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Strange pungent meats from Germany,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And currants from a Grecian hill.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He is the lord of goodly things</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That make the poor man’s table gay,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet of his worth no minstrel sings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And on his tomb there is no bay.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">This trafficker in humble sweets,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Because his little shops are raised</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By thousands in the city streets.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet stars in greater numbers shine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And violets in millions grow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And they in many a golden line</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are sung, as every child must know.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His shop, and all he sells and buys</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are desperately commonplace.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Well, it is true he has no sword</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To dangle at his booted knees.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He leans across a slab of board,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And draws his knife and slices cheese.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He never heard of chivalry,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He longs for no heroic times;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And dollars, nickels, cents and dimes.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">His world has narrow walls, it seems;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By counters is his soul confined;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His wares are all his hopes and dreams,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They are the fabric of his mind.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet—in a room above the store</div> - <div class="verse indent2">There is a woman—and a child</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pattered just now across the floor;</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">The shopman looked at him and smiled.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For, once he thrilled with high romance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And turned to love his eager voice.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like any cavalier of France</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He wooed the maiden of his choice.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And now deep in his weary heart</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are sacred flames that whitely burn.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He has of Heaven’s grace a part</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who loves, who is beloved in turn.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And when the long day’s work is done,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">(How slow the leaden minutes ran!)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Home, with his wife and little son,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He is no huckster, but a man!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And there are those who grasp his hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who drink with him and wish him well.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O in no drear and lonely land</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shall he who honours friendship dwell.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And in his little shop, who knows</div> - <div class="verse indent2">What bitter games of war are played?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why, daily on each corner grows</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A foe to rob him of his trade.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He fights, and for his fireside’s sake;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He fights for clothing and for bread:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The lances of his foemen make</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A steely halo round his head.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He decks his window artfully,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He haggles over paltry sums.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In this strange field his war must be</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And by such blows his triumph comes.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What if no trumpet sounds to call</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His arméd legions to his side?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What if to no ancestral hall</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He comes in all a victor’s pride?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The scene shall never fit the deed.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Grotesquely wonders come to pass.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fool shall mount an Arab steed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Jesus ride upon an ass.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This man has home and child and wife</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And battle set for every day.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This man has God and love and life;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">These stand, all else shall pass away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O Carpenter of Nazareth,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whose mother was a village maid,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In scorn on any humble trade?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Have pity on our foolishness</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And give us eyes, that we may see</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the shopman’s clumsy dress</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The splendour of humanity!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_190" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SERVANT_GIRL_AND_GROCERS_BOY">SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER’S BOY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Her</span> lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her soul spoke thus (I know it did):</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“O king of realms of endless joy,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My own, my golden grocer’s boy,</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I am a princess forced to dwell</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Within a lonely kitchen cell,</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">While you go dashing through the land</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With loveliness on every hand.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Your whistle strikes my eager ears</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Like music of the choiring spheres.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The mighty earth grows faint and reels</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How keenly, perilously sweet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To cling upon that swaying seat!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How happy she who by your side</div> - <div class="verse indent0">May share the splendours of that ride!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah, if you will not take my hand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And bear me off across the land,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then, traveller from Arcady,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Remain awhile and comfort me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">What other maiden can you find</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So young and delicate and kind?”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her soul spoke thus (I know it did).</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_192" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WEALTH">WEALTH<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">From</span> what old ballad, or from what rich frame</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Did you descend to glorify the earth?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Was it from Chaucer’s singing book you came?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Or did Watteau’s small brushes give you birth?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Could Raphael or Leonardo trace.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor could the poets know in Fairyland</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The changing wonder of your lyric face.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I would possess a host of lovely things,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But I am poor and such joys may not be.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_193" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MARTIN">MARTIN</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> I am tired of earnest men,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Intense and keen and sharp and clever,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pursuing fame with brush or pen,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Or counting metal disks forever,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then from the halls of Shadowland,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beyond the trackless purple sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beside my desk and talk to me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Still on his delicate pale face</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A quizzical thin smile is showing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr4">His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A suit to match his soft grey hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A rakish stick, a knowing hat,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A manner blithe and debonair.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How good that he who always knew</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That being lovely was a duty,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Should have gold halls to wander through</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And should himself inhabit beauty.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How like his old unselfish way</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To leave those halls of splendid mirth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And comfort those condemned to stay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon the dull and sombre earth.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Some people ask: “What cruel chance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Made Martin’s life so sad a story?”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And wore an overcoat of glory.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A fleck of sunlight in the street,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Such visions made each moment sweet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For this receptive ancient child.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Because it was old Martin’s lot</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To be, not make, a decoration,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall we then scorn him, having not</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His genius of appreciation?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rich joy and love he got and gave;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His heart was merry as his dress;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who did not gain, but was, success!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_194" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_APARTMENT_HOUSE">THE APARTMENT HOUSE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Severe</span> against the pleasant arc of sky</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The great stone box is cruelly displayed.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The street becomes more dreary from its shade,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">How worse than folly is their labour made</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet, as I look, I see a woman’s face</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Gleam from a window far above the street.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This is a house of homes, a sacred place,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By human passion made divinely sweet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How all the building thrills with sudden grace</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beneath the magic of Love’s golden feet!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_196" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="AS_WINDS_THAT_BLOW_AGAINST_A">AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A -STAR<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Now</span> by what whim of wanton chance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Do radiant eyes know sombre days?</div> - <div class="verse indent0 padr2">And feet that shod in light should dance</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Walk weary and laborious ways?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But rays from Heaven, white and whole,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">May penetrate the gloom of earth;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And tears but nourish, in your soul,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The glory of celestial mirth.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The darts of toil and sorrow, sent</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Against your peaceful beauty, are</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As foolish and as impotent</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As winds that blow against a star.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_197" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ST_LAURENCE">ST. LAURENCE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Within</span> the broken Vatican</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The murdered Pope is lying dead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The soldiers of Valerian</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Their evil hands are wet and red.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His cassock is his only mail.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The troops of Hell have burst the gates,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They have encompassed him with steel,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They spit upon his gentle face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Church’s hidden treasure-place.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Since thou hast fought the goodly fight</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A martyr’s death is fixed for thee.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">St. Laurence, pray for us to bear</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The faith which glorifies thy name.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">St. Laurence, pray for us to share</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The wounds of Love’s consuming flame.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_198" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TO_A_YOUNG_POET_WHO_KILLED">TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED -HIMSELF</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> you had played with life a space</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And made it drink and lust and sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You flung it back into God’s face</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And thought you did a noble thing.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Lo, I have lived and loved,” you said,</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">“And sung to fools too dull to hear me.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now for a cool and grassy bed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With violets in blossom near me.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Well, rest is good for weary feet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Although they ran for no great prize;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And violets are very sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Although their roots are in your eyes.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But hark to what the earthworms say</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who share with you your muddy haven:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“The fight was on—you ran away.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You are a coward and a craven.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The rug is ruined where you bled;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It was a dirty way to die!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To put a bullet through your head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And make a silly woman cry!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> - <div class="verse indent0">You could not vex the merry stars</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor make them heed you, dead or living.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not all your puny anger mars</div> - <div class="verse indent2">God’s irresistible forgiving.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Yes, God forgives and men forget,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And you’re forgiven and forgotten.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You might be gaily sinning yet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And quick and fresh instead of rotten.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And when you think of love and fame</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And all that might have come to pass,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then don’t you feel a little shame?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And don’t you think you were an ass?”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_200" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MEMORIAL_DAY">MEMORIAL DAY<br /> - -<span class="subhead">“Dulce et decorum est”</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> bugle echoes shrill and sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But not of war it sings to-day.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The road is rhythmic with the feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of men-at-arms who come to pray.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The roses blossom white and red</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On tombs where weary soldiers lie;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Flags wave above the honoured dead</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And martial music cleaves the sky.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They kept the faith and fought the fight.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through flying lead and crimson steel</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They plunged for Freedom and the Right.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">May we, their grateful children, learn</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who went through fire and death to earn</div> - <div class="verse indent2">At last the accolade of God.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">In shining rank on rank arrayed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They march, the legions of the Lord;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He is their Captain unafraid,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Prince of Peace ... Who brought a sword.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_201" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ROSARY">THE ROSARY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Not</span> on the lute, or harp of many strings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shall all men praise the Master of all song.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And skilled must be the laureates of kings.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Music like that God’s chosen poet sings?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is one harp that any hand can play,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And from its strings what harmonies arise!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is one song that any mouth can <span class="locked">say,—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">A song that lingers when all singing dies.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When on their beads our Mother’s children pray,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Immortal music charms the grateful skies.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_202" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VISION">VISION<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Homer,</span> they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful faces</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet did he seem</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet have I seen</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_203" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TO_CERTAIN_POETS">TO CERTAIN POETS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Now</span> is the rhymer’s honest trade</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A thing for scornful laughter made.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 padr2">The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s disdain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These are the burden of our pain.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Because of you did this befall,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You brought this shame upon us all.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You little poets mincing there</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With women’s hearts and women’s hair!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How sick Dan Chaucer’s ghost must be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To hear you lisp of “Poesie”!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A heavy-handed blow, I think,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Would make your veins drip scented ink.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">You strut and smirk your little while</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So mildly, delicately vile!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Your tiny voices mock God’s wrath,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">You snails that crawl along His path!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Why, what has God or man to do</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With wet, amorphous things like you?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This thing alone you have achieved:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Because of you, it is believed</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">That all who earn their bread by rhyme</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Are like yourselves, exuding slime.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Oh, cease to write, for very shame,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ere all men spit upon our name!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Take up your needles, drop your pen,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And leave the poet’s craft to men!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_205" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LOVES_LANTERN">LOVE’S LANTERN<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Aline)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Because</span> the road was steep and long</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And through the dark and lonely land,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God set upon my lips a song</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And put a lantern in my hand.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Through miles on weary miles of night</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That stretch relentless in my way</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My lantern burns serene and white,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">An unexhausted cup of day.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O golden lights and lights like wine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">How dim your boasted splendours are.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Behold this little lamp of mine;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">It is more starlike than a star!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_206" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ST_ALEXIS">ST. ALEXIS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">Patron of Beggars</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">We</span> who beg for bread as we daily tread</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Country lane and city street,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To the saint with the vagrant feet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our altar light is a buttercup bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And our shrine is a bank of sod,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But still we share St. Alexis’ care,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Vagabond of God.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">They gave him a home in purple Rome</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And a princess for his bride,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But he rowed away on his wedding day</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Down the Tiber’s rushing tide.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And he came to land on the Asian strand</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where the heathen people dwell;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And he saved their souls from hell.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Bowed with years and pain he came back again</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To his father’s dwelling place.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There was none to see who this tramp might be,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For they knew not his bearded face.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span> - <div class="verse indent0">But his father said, “Give him drink and bread</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And a couch underneath the stair.”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So Alexis crept to his hole and slept.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But he might not linger there.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For when night came down on the seven-hilled town,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And the emperor hurried in,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saying, “Lo, I hear that a saint is near</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who will cleanse us of our sin,”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For his soul had fled afar,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From his fleshly home he had gone to roam</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where the gold-paved highways are.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">We who beg for bread as we daily tread</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Country lane and city street,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To the saint with the vagrant feet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our altar light is a buttercup bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And our shrine is a bank of sod,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But still we share St. Alexis’ care,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Vagabond of God!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_208" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOLLY">FOLLY<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For A. K. K.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">What</span> distant mountains thrill and glow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Beneath our Lady Folly’s tread?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why has she left us, wise in woe,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shrewd, practical, uncomforted?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We cannot love or dream or sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">We are too cynical to pray,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no joy in anything</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Since Lady Folly went away.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Many a knight and gentle maid,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whose glory shines from years gone by,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through ignorance was unafraid</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And as a fool knew how to die.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And broke the ranks of Hell with her,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Folly’s smile shone brightly on</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Christ’s plaything, Brother Juniper.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Our minds are troubled and defiled</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By study in a weary school.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O for the folly of the child!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The ready courage of the fool!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord, crush our knowledge utterly</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And make us humble, simple men;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And cleansed of wisdom, let us see</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Our Lady Folly’s face again.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_210" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MADNESS">MADNESS<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Sara Teasdale)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> lonely farm, the crowded street,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The palace and the slum,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Give welcome to my silent feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As, bearing gifts, I come.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Last night a beggar crouched alone,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A ragged helpless thing;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I set him on a moonbeam <span class="locked">throne—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">To-day he is a king.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Last night a king in orb and crown</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Held court with splendid cheer;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To-day he tears his purple gown</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And moans and shrieks in fear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Not land, nor sky, nor sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor love’s artillery of tears</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Can keep mine own from me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Serene, unchanging, ever fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I smile with secret mirth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And in a net of mine own hair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I swing the captive earth.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_211" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="POETS">POETS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Vain</span> is the chiming of forgotten bells</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 padr2">Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They shall not live who have not tasted death.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They only sing who are struck dumb by God.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_212" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CITIZEN_OF_THE_WORLD">CITIZEN OF THE WORLD</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">No</span> longer of Him be it said,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“He hath no place to lay His head.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">In every land a constant lamp</div> - <div class="verse indent0 padr2">Flames by His small and mighty camp.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no strange and distant place</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That is not gladdened by His face.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And every nation kneels to hail</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Splendour shining through Its veil.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Cloistered beside the shouting street,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Silent, He calls me to His feet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Imprisoned for His love of me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He makes my spirit greatly free.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And through my lips that uttered sin</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The King of Glory enters in.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_213" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TO_A_BLACKBIRD_AND_HIS_MATE">TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE -WHO DIED IN THE SPRING<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Kenton)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">An</span> iron hand has stilled the throats</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And dammed the flood of silver notes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That drenched the world in melody.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The blosmy apple boughs are yearning</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For their wild choristers’ returning,</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr4">But no swift wings flash through the tree.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shall Silence take you in her net?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And shall Death quell that radiant song</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Burst the frail web about you clinging</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And charm Death’s cruel heart with singing</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The scented morning of the year</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is old and stale now ye are gone.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No friendly songs the children hear</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Among the bushes on the lawn.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When babies wander out a-Maying</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Above the stars is set your nest.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through Heaven’s fields ye sing and fly</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And in the trees of Heaven rest.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And little children in their dreaming</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And smile, by your clear music blest.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_215" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_FOURTH_SHEPHERD">THE FOURTH SHEPHERD<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(For Thomas Walsh)</span></h2> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">On</span> nights like this the huddled sheep</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Are like white clouds upon the grass,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And merry herdsmen guard their sleep,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And chat and watch the big stars pass.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">It is a pleasant thing to lie</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon the meadow on the hill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With kindly fellowship near by</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of sheep and men of gentle will.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I lean upon my broken crook</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And dream of sheep and grass and <span class="locked">men—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">O shameful eyes that cannot look</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On any honest thing again!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">On bloody feet I clambered down</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And fled the wages of my sin,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I am the leavings of the town,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And meanly serve its meanest inn.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">While sleep takes man and beast to her.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And every cloud is calling “Thief!”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And every star calls “Murderer!”</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The hand of God is sure and strong,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor shall a man forever flee</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The bitter punishment of wrong.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The wrath of God is over me!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">With ashen bread and wine of tears</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shall I be solaced in my pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I wear through black and endless years</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon my brow the mark of Cain.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Poor vagabond, so old and mild,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Will they not keep him for a night?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And She, a woman great with child,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So frail and pitiful and white.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Good people, since the tavern door</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is shut to you, come here instead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">See, I have cleansed my stable floor</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And piled fresh hay to make a bed.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here is some milk and oaten cake.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Lie down and sleep and rest you fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor fear, O simple folk, to take</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The bounty of a child of care.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">On nights like this the huddled <span class="locked">sheep—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">I never saw a night so fair.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How huge the sky is, and how deep!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And how the planets flash and glare!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">At dawn beside my drowsy flock</div> - <div class="verse indent2">What wingéd music I have heard!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But now the clouds with singing rock</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As if the sky were turning bird.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O blinding Light, O blinding Light!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O flaming Song, most loudly bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Consume away my deadly stain!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The stable glows against the sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And who are these that throng the way?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My three old comrades hasten by</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And shining angels kneel and pray.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The door swings wide—I cannot <span class="locked">go—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">I must and yet I dare not see.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord, who am I that I should <span class="locked">know—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">Lord, God, be merciful to me!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of new-washed sheep on April sod!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_218" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="EASTER">EASTER</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> air is like a butterfly</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With frail blue wings.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The happy earth looks at the sky</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And sings.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_219" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MOUNT_HOUVENKOPF">MOUNT HOUVENKOPF</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Serene</span> he stands, with mist serenely crowned,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And draws a cloak of trees about his breast.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The thunder roars but cannot break his rest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And from his rugged face the tempests bound.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He does not heed the angry lightning’s wound,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The raging blizzard is his harmless guest,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And human life is but a passing jest</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To him who sees Time spin the years around.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find</div> - <div class="verse indent2">High vantage-points and view him from afar.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How low he seems to the ascended mind,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">How brief he seems where all things endless are;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This little playmate of the mighty wind,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">This young companion of an ancient star.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_220" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_HOUSE_WITH_NOBODY_IN_IT">THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Whenever</span> I walk to Suffern along the Erie track</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I know this house isn’t haunted, and I wish it were, I do;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I’d put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I’d buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I’d find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But there’s nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For the lack of something within it that it has never known.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and held up his stumbling feet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is the saddest sight, when it’s left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For I can’t help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_223" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DAVE_LILLY">DAVE LILLY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There’s</span> a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But there’s nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen, or so.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And when he didn’t go fishing he’d sit in the tavern and drink.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span> - <div class="verse indent0">But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And after I’d been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There wasn’t a sign of a fisherman; there wasn’t a sign of a trout.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span> - <div class="verse indent0">But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">It’s fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And there’s nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I know that it’s full of ghostly trout for Lilly’s ghost to get.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I guess I’ll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly’s ghost went by.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And put some flowers on it—but this will be better for Dave.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_226" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="ALARM_CLOCKS">ALARM CLOCKS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Across green fields and yellow hills of hay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The little twittering birds laugh in his way</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And poise triumphant on his shining arm.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He bears a sword of flame but not to harm</div> - <div class="verse indent2 padr2">The wakened life that feels his quickening sway</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And barnyard voices shrilling “It is day!”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Take by his grace a new and alien charm.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But in the city, like a wounded thing</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That limps to cover from the angry chase,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And wanly mock his young and shameful face;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And tiny gongs with cruel fervour ring</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In many a high and dreary sleeping place.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_227" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WAVERLEY">WAVERLEY<br /> - -<span class="subhead">1814–1914</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> on a novel’s newly printed page</div> - <div class="verse indent2">We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And read of ways that harlots wander in,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Taps on her desk and bids the class begin</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To con the problems that have always been</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Perplexed mankind’s unhappy heritage;</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then in what robes of honour habited</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The laureled wizard of the North appears!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who raised Prince Charlie’s cohorts from the dead,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Made Rose’s mirth and Flora’s noble tears,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And formed that shining legion at whose head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Rides Waverley, triumphant o’er the years!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="EARLY_POEMS"><span class="larger">EARLY POEMS</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_231" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IN_A_BOOK-SHOP">IN A BOOK-SHOP</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">All</span> day I serve among the volumes telling</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Old tales of love and war and high romance;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Good company, God wot, is in them dwelling,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Brave knights who dared to scorn untoward chance.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">King Arthur—Sidney—Copperfield—the daring</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And friendly souls of Meredith’s bright <span class="locked">page—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Pilgrim on his darksome journey faring,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Shakespeare’s heroes, great in love and rage.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Fair ladies, too—here Beatricè smiling</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Through hell leads Dante to the happy stars;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Heloise, the cruel guards beguiling,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With Abelard makes mock of convent bars.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet when night comes I leave these folks with pleasure</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To open Love’s great summer-scented tome</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Within whose pages—precious beyond <span class="locked">measure—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">My own White Flower Lady hath her home.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_232" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SLENDER_YOUR_HANDS">SLENDER YOUR HANDS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Slender</span> your hands and soft and white</div> - <div class="verse indent2">As petals of moon-kissed roses;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet the grasp of your fingers slight</div> - <div class="verse indent2">My passionate heart encloses.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Innocent eyes like delicate spheres</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That are born when day is dying;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet the wisdom of all the years</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Is in their lovelight lying.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_233" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SLEEP_SONG">SLEEP SONG</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">The Lady World</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is sleeping on her white and cloudy bed.</div> - <div class="verse indent8">Like petals furled</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her eyelids close. Beside her dream-filled head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Her lover stands in silver cloak and shoon,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The faithful Moon.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">So Love, my Love,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sleep on, my Love, my Life, be not afraid.</div> - <div class="verse indent8">The Moon above</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall guard the World, and I my little maid.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Your life, your love, your dreams are mine to keep,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So sleep, so sleep.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_234" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WHITE_BIRD_OF_LOVE">WHITE BIRD OF LOVE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">Little</span> white bird of the summer sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Silver against the golden sun,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Over the green of the hills you fly,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You and the sweet, wild air are one.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Glorious sights are in that far place</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Reached by your daisy-petal wing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rose-coloured meteors dive through space,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Stars made of molten music sing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Still, though your quivering eager flight</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Reaches the groves by Heaven town,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Where all the angels cry out, “Alight!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Stop, little bird, come down, come down!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Careless you speed over fields of stars,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Darting through Heaven swift and free;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nothing your arrowy passage bars</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Back to the earth and back to me.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here in the orchard of dream-fruit fair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Out of my dreams is built your nest.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Blossoming dreams all the branches bear,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Fit for my silver dream-bird’s rest.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Here, since they love you, the young stars shine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Through the white petals come their beams.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Little white love-laden bird of mine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Let them shine on you through my dreams.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_236" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="TRANSFIGURATION">TRANSFIGURATION</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">If</span> it should be my task, I being God,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From whirling atoms to evolve your mate,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With hands omnipotent I should create</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A great-souled hero, with the starlight shod.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The subject worlds should tremble at his nod</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And all the angel host upon him wait,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet he should leave his pomp and splendid state</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And kneel to kiss the ground whereon you trod.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But God, who like a little child is wise,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Made me, a common thing of earthly clay;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then bade me go and see within your eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The flame of love that burns more bright than day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And as I looked I knew with wild surprise</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I was transformed—your heart in my heart lay.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_237" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="BALLADE_OF_MY_LADYS_BEAUTY">BALLADE OF MY LADY’S BEAUTY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Squire Adam</span> had two wives, they say,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Two wives had he, for his delight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He kissed and clypt them all the day</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And clypt and kissed them all the night.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Now Eve like ocean foam was white</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Lilith roses dipped in wine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But though they were a goodly sight</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No lady is so fair as mine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">To Venus some folk tribute pay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Queen of Beauty she is hight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And Sainte Marie the world doth sway</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In cerule napery bedight.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">My wonderment these twain invite,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Their comeliness it is divine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And yet I say in their despite,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No lady is so fair as mine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Dame Helen caused a grievous fray,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For love of her brave men did fight,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The eyes of her made sages fey</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And put their hearts in woful plight.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span> - <div class="verse indent2">To her no rhymes will I indite,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For her no garlands will I twine,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Though she be made of flowers and light</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No lady is so fair as mine.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>L’ENVOI</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Who on Olympus dost recline,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Do I not tell the truth aright?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">No lady is so fair as mine.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_239" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOR_A_BIRTHDAY">FOR A BIRTHDAY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">April</span> with her violets,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">May and June with roses,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Young July with all her flowers, crimson, gold and white,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Each in place her tribute sets,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Each her wreath composes,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Making glad the roadway for the Lady of Delight.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Birds with many colours gay,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Through the branches flitting,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Sing, to greet my Lady Love, a lusty welcome song.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Even bees make holiday,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Hive and honey quitting,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Tremulous and jubilant they join the eager throng.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now the road is flower-paved;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Timid fawns are peering</div> - <div class="verse indent4">From their pleasant vantage in the roadside’s leafy green.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All the world in sunlight laved,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Knows the hour is nearing</div> - <div class="verse indent4">That shall bring the golden presence of the well-loved Queen.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Hark! at last the silver trill</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of a lute is <span class="locked">sounding—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent4">Happy August, purple-clad, appears with all her train.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sudden sweet the branches fill;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Every heart is bounding;</div> - <div class="verse indent4">August comes, the kindly nurse of her who is to reign!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And now, with proud and valiant gait,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">An hundred centaurs come.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Pan rides the foremost one in state;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The waiting crowd grows dumb.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Each centaur wears a jewelled thong</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And harness bright of sheen;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They draw through surging floods of song</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The carriage of the Queen!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Queen in her moonstone car!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Lady whose slaves we are!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We of the meadows, the rocks and the hills,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dwellers in oceans and rivers and rills,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Beasts of the forests and birds of the air,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Linnet and butterfly, lion and bear,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Daisy and daffodill, spruce-tree and fir,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yield to our Queen and do homage to her!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Hail! Hail! Hail! we welcome thy royal sway!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Hail! Hail! Hail! O Queen, on this festal day!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So all the world kneels down to you,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And all things are your own;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now let a humble rhymer sue</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Before your crystal throne.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fair Queen, at your rose-petal feet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Bid me to live and die!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not all your world of lovers, Sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Can love so much as I.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter illowe30" id="i_240"> - <img src="images/i_240.jpg" alt="" /> - <div class="captionl"> - <p class="in0">JOYCE KILMER, AGE 21</p> - <p class="in0 smaller">TAKEN IN ACADEMIC GOWN,<br /> - IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS<br /> - GRADUATION, AND DIRECTLY<br /> - PRECEDING HIS MARRIAGE</p> - </div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_242" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WAYFARERS">WAYFARERS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Underneath</span> the orchard trees lies a gypsy sleeping,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Tattered cloak and swarthy face and shaggy moonlit hair;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">One brown hand his crazy fiddle in its grasp is keeping,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Through the Land of Dreams he strolls and sings his love songs there.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Up above the apple blossoms where the stars are shining,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Free and careless wandering among the clouds he goes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Singing of his lady-love and for her pleasure twining</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Wreaths of Heaven flowers, violet and golden rose.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">In his sleep he stirs, and wakes to find his love beside him,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Pours his load of Dreamland blooms before her silver feet,</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Takes her in his arms and as her soft brown tresses hide him</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Both together fare to Dreamland up the star-paved street.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_244" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRINCESS_BALLADE">PRINCESS BALLADE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Never</span> a horn sounds in Sherwood to-night,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Friar Tuck’s drinking Olympian ale,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Little John’s wandered away from our sight,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Robin Hood’s bow hangs unused on its nail.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Even the moon has grown weary and pale</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sick for the glint of Maid Marian’s hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But there is one joy on mountain and dale,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Saints have attacked them with sacredest might,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They could not shatter their gossamer mail;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Steam-driven engines can never affright</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Fairies who dance in their spark-sprinkled trail.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Still for a warning the sad Banshees wail,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Still are the Leprechauns ready to bear</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Purses of gold to their captors for bail;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Oberon, king of the realms of delight,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">May your domain over us never fail.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mab, as a rainbow-hued butterfly bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yours is the glory that age cannot stale.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span> - <div class="verse indent2">When we are planted down under the shale,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fairy-folk, drop a few daffodils there,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Comfort our souls in the Stygian vale;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Fairies abound all the time, everywhere.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3>L’ENVOI</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">White Flower Princess, though sophisters rail,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Let us be glad in faith that we share.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">None shall the Good People safely assail;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_246" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LULLABY_FOR_A_BABY_FAIRY">LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Night</span> is over; through the clover globes of crystal shine;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Birds are calling; sunlight falling on the wet green vine.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Little wings must folded lie, little lips be still</div> - <div class="verse indent2">While the sun is in the sky, over Fairy Hill.</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Sleep, sleep, sleep,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Baby with buttercup hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent8">Golden rays</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Into the violet creep.</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Dream, dream deep;</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Dream of the night-revels fair.</div> - <div class="verse indent8">Daylight stays;</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Sleep, little fairy child, sleep.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Rest in daytime; night is playtime, all good fairies know.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Under sighing grasses lying, off to slumber go.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Night will come with stars agleam, lilies in her hand,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Calling you from Hills of Dream back to Fairyland.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> - <div class="verse indent4">Sleep, sleep, sleep,</div> - <div class="verse indent8">Baby with buttercup hair;</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Golden rays</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Into the violet creep.</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Dream, dream deep;</div> - <div class="verse indent8">Dream of the night-revels fair.</div> - <div class="verse indent10">Daylight stays;</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Sleep, little fairy child, sleep.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_248" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_DEAD_POET">A DEAD POET</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Fair</span> Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed</div> - <div class="verse indent4">To take that weary vagrant to thy breast.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one <span class="locked">need—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent4">Rest.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_249" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MAD_FIDDLER">THE MAD FIDDLER</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I sleep</span> beneath a bracken sheet</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In sunlight or in rain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The road dust burns my naked feet,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The sunrays sear my brain;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But children love my fiddle’s sound</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And if a lad be straying,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His mother knows he may be found</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where old Mad Larry’s playing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O fiddle, let us follow, follow,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Till we see my Eileen’s face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through the moonlight like a swallow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Off she flew to some far place.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O, did you ever love a lass?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I loved a lass one day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And she would lie upon the grass</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And sing while I would play.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She was a cruel, lovely thing,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor heart nor soul have I,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For Eileen took them that soft spring</div> - <div class="verse indent2">When she flew to the sky.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">So fiddle, let us follow, follow,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Till we see my Eileen’s face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through the moonlight like a swallow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Off she flew to some far place.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_251" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_GRASS_IN_MADISON_SQUARE">THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">The grass is dead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No soft green shoot, by rain and sunshine reared,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Lifts up its head.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I think the grass that made the park so gay</div> - <div class="verse indent6">In early spring</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now decks the lawns of Heaven where babies play</div> - <div class="verse indent6">And dance and sing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And poor old vagabonds who now have left</div> - <div class="verse indent6">The dusty street,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Find fields of which they were in life bereft,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Beneath their feet.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_252" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SAID_THE_ROSE">SAID THE ROSE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">No</span> flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When he bends down to kiss my heart, my petals try to twine</div> - <div class="verse indent0">About his lips to hold them fast. He is so very fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My lover with the pale, sad face and forest-fragrant hair.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I think it is a pleasant place, this garden where I grow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses in a row.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no toil nor worry here, nor clatter of the street,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And here each night my lover comes, pale, sad and very sweet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I am his love, his only love, his Flower of Delight;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My lover kneels the whole night through beside me on the ground.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">How can I miss the sunshine-laden breezes of the south</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When all my heart is burning with the kisses of his mouth?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">How can I miss the coming of the comfort-bringing rain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When his hot tears are filling me with heaven-sweet love-pain?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He sings this bitter, bitter song from his brown nest above:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“Was ever yet a mortal man who wed a flower wife?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He loves the girl down in your roots whose dead breast gives you life.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O little bird, O jealous bird, fly off and cease your chatter!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals steep;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I am his love, his only love, I have his heart to keep.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_254" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="METAMORPHOSIS">METAMORPHOSIS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">He</span> was an evil thing to <span class="locked">see—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of joy his mouth was desolate;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His body was a stunted tree,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His eyes were pools of lust and hate.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now silverly the linnet sings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On leaves that from his temples start,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And gay the yellow crocus springs</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From the rich clod that was his heart.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_255" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOR_A_CHILD">FOR A CHILD</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap padr2"><span class="smcap1">His</span> mind has neither need nor power to know</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The foolish things that men call right and wrong.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For him the streams of pleasant love-wind flow,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For him the mystic, sleep-compelling song.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through love he rules his love-made universe,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And sees with eyes by ignorance made keen</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The fauns and elves whom older eyes disperse,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Great Pan and all the fairies with their queen.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">King gods, I pray, bestow on him this dole,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Not wisdom, wealth, nor mighty deeds to do,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But let him keep his happy pagan soul,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The poet-vision, simple, free and true,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To hunt the rainbow-gold and phantom lights,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And meet with dryads on the wooded heights.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_256" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CLOUDED_SUN">THE CLOUDED SUN<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(To A. S.)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">It</span> is not good for poets to grow old,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Call back their faithful servants to the fold</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Before Age makes them passionless and cold.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Therefore it is that no more sorry thing</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Than some grey head through which no longer pass</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Far happier he, who, young and full of pride</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And radiant with the glory of the sun,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Leaves earth before his singing time is done.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The world may see his young impetuous face</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">While memory no piteous story tells</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span> - </div> - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers</div> - <div class="verse indent2">About the head of us, thy mournful lovers.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The London lights flare on the chattering street,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Young men and maidens love and dance and die;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Wine flows, and the perfumes float up to the sky.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The smile of those she kisses at their birth,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There is no harsher tragedy than <span class="locked">this—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">That thou, who feltest as no man before</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Scent, colour, taste and sound and didst outpour</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Brother and Master, if our love could free</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thy flameborne spirit from its leaden chain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">These roses, red as lips that thou hast sung,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To mingle with the green and fragrant bay,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And cypress wreaths above thy head are hung.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_259" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_POETS_EPITAPH">THE POET’S EPITAPH</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Dreams</span> fade with morning light;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Never a morn for thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreamer of dreams, good-night.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Over our earthly sight</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shadows of woe must be;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreams fade with morning light.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Soldiers awake to <span class="locked">fight—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">Thou art from strife set free,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreamer of dreams, good-night.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Day breaketh, cruel, white,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Lovely the forms that flee;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreams fade with morning light.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Thine is the sure delight,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sleep-visions still to see,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreamer of dreams, good-night.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Pity us from thy height,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Dawn-haunted slaves are we;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreams fade with morning light,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dreamer of dreams, good-night.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_260" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="BEAUTYS_HAIR">BEAUTY’S HAIR</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A gleam</span> of light across the night,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I know that you are there;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The heavens show the lovely glow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of your transcendent hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Your luminous, miraculous, and morning-coloured hair.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">I’ll take my silver javelin</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And point it with a star,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For I have vowed to climb a cloud</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And reach to where you are.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My javelin’s barb shall pierce your hair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And pin it to the sky,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And I will run to the island sun</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where captive you will lie,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And then I shall dare to touch your hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To steal a tress of your magic hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And bring to the world a tress of hair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And win the world thereby.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Or shall I put on a green-sea cloak</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With sunset laces trimmed,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And shine so gay that the dawn will say</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That her radiance is dimmed?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There never was a lover could shine more fair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Than I in my cloak will shine;</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span> - <div class="verse indent0">And all for the sake of your merry hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your whimsical, perilous, golden hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Your lovely, terrible, golden hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">More sweet than love or wine.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">A twisted bit of silver</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Fell down and bruised my face.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What was it broke my broidered cloak</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And tore the sunset lace?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I must be clad in sorrow</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Because you are so gay,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And close my eyes if I would see</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A whiter light than day.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So lofty is your golden hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I cannot climb to touch your hair,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I must kneel down to find your hair</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Upon the trampled way.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_262" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WAY_OF_LOVE">THE WAY OF LOVE<br /> - -<span class="subhead">(An Old Legend)</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">When</span> darkness hovers over earth</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And day gives place to night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then lovers see the Milky Way</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Gleam mystically bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And calling it the Way of Love</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They hail it with delight.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">She was a lady wondrous fair,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A right brave lover he,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And sooth they suffered grievous pain</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And sorrowed mightily,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For they were parted during life</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By leagues of land and sea.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">She died. Then Death came to the man.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He met him joyfully,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And said, “Thou Angel Death, well met!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Quick, do thy will with me,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That I may haste to greet my love</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In Heaven’s company.”</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Now on one side of Heaven he dwelt</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And on the other, she;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And broad between them stretched sheer space</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whereon no way might be,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The empty, yawning, awful depth,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Unplumbed infinity.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The deathless spheric melody</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Came gently to his ear,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And dulcet notes, the harmonies</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of Seraphs chanting near.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He heeded not for listening</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His lady’s voice to hear.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The Saints and Martyrs round him ranged</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A goodly company,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Virgin, robed in radiance,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The Holy Trinity.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He heeded not, but strained his eyes</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His lady’s face to see.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">At last from far across the void</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Her voice came, faint and sweet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The bright-hued walls of Paradise</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Did the glad sound repeat;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The distant stars on which she stood</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Shone bright beneath her feet.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Dear Love,” she said, “Oh, come to me!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I cannot see your face.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O will not Lord Christ grant to us</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To cross this sea of space?”</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then thrilled his heart with Love’s own might.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He answered, by Love’s grace.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The world is wide, and Heaven is wide,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From me to thee is far,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Alas! across Infinity</div> - <div class="verse indent2">No passageways there are.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sweetheart, I’ll make my way to thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I’ll build it, star by star!”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Through all the curving vault of sky</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His lusty blows rang out.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He smote the jewel-studded walls</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And with a mighty shout</div> - <div class="verse indent0">He tore the gleaming masonry</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And posts that stood about.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He strove to build a massive bridge</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That should the chasm span.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With heart upheld by hope and love</div> - <div class="verse indent2">His great task he began,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And toiled and laboured doughtily</div> - <div class="verse indent2">To work his God-like plan.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He took the heavy beams of gold</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That round him he did see;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The beryl, jacinth, sardius,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That shone so brilliantly,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And no fair jewel would he spare</div> - <div class="verse indent2">So zealously worked he.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">He stole the gorgeous tinted stuffs</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Whereof are sunsets made,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And his rude, grasping, eager hands</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On little stars he laid;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To rob God’s sacred treasure-house</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He was no whit afraid.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">And so for centuries he worked.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Across the void at last</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A bridge of precious mold did stand</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Completed, strong and fast.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So now the faithful lovers met</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And all their woe was past.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">But soon a shining angel guard</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sped to the throne of gold</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And said, “Lord, see yon new-made bridge,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A mortal, overbold,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Has built it, scorning thy desire!”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Straightway the tale he told.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Then said: “Now, Master, Thou mayst see</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The thing that has been wrought.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Speak, then, the word, stretch forth Thine hand</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That with the speed of thought</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This poor presumptuous work may fall</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And crumble into naught.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">God looked upon the angel then</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And on the bridge below.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then with His smile of majesty</div> - <div class="verse indent2">He said: “Let all things know,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">This bridge, which has by Love been built,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I will not overthrow.”</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">When darkness hovers over earth</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And day gives place to night,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then lovers see the Milky Way</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Gleam mystically bright,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And calling it the Way of Love,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They hail it with delight.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_267" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHEVELY_CROSSING">CHEVELY CROSSING</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0 drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There</span> two roads cross by Chevely town</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A man is lying dead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The rumbling wains of scented hay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Roll over his fair head;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A stake is driven through his heart,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For his own blood he shed.</div> - </div> - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Among the pleasant flower-stars</div> - <div class="verse indent2">By God’s own garden gate,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A little maid fresh come from earth</div> - <div class="verse indent2">One summer night did wait;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her poppy mouth dropped down with fear,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With fear her eyes were great.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">The angels saw her sinless face,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The gate was opened wide.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She only shook her dawn-crowned head</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And would not come inside.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She was alone, and so <span class="locked">afraid—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent2">She hid her face and cried.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Her tears dropped down like sun-filled rain</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Through stars and starless space,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Until at last in Chevely town</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where in a moonlit place</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her lover knelt upon her grave,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">They fell upon his face.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Said he, “My love, my only love,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">My Elena, my Sweet!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through what wild ways of mystery</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Have strayed your little feet?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Alone, alone this lonely night</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where only spirits meet!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“It is not my bleak desert life</div> - <div class="verse indent2">That turns my heart to lead,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not for my empty arms I mourn,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Nor for my loveless bed;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But that you wander forth alone</div> - <div class="verse indent2">On heights I may not tread.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“If I could stand beside you now,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sin-burdened though I be,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I’d bear you through the trackless ways</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From fear and danger free,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not God himself could daunt the strong</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Undying love of me!</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Though Heaven is a pleasant place,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">What joy for you is there?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Who tread the jewelled streets alone</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Without my heart to share</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Each throb of your heart, and my arm</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Around you, O my Fair!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“I hear your sobbing in the wind,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And in the summer rain</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I feel your tears. My heart is pierced</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With your sad, lonely pain.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">My Love! My only Love! I come!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">You shall not call in vain!”</div> - </div> - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Where two roads cross by Chevely town</div> - <div class="verse indent2">A man is lying dead.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The rumbling wains of scented hay</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Roll over his fair head;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A stake is driven through his heart,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">For his own blood he shed.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_270" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_OTHER_LOVER">THE OTHER LOVER</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2 drop-cap m"><span class="smcap1">I’m</span> home from off the stormy sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">And down the street</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The folk come out to welcome me</div> - <div class="verse indent4">On eager feet.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O neighbours, God be with you all,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But for my true love I must call;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">She lingers in her father’s hall</div> - <div class="verse indent4">So shy, so sweet!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">Here is a string of milky pearls</div> - <div class="verse indent4">For her to wear,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">An amber comb to match the curls</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Of her bright hair.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O neighbours, do not crowd me so!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Stand by! stand by! for I must go</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To put on my love’s hand of snow</div> - <div class="verse indent4">This gold ring fair.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">Good dame, why do you block the way</div> - <div class="verse indent4">And shake your head?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Must all the things you have to say</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Just now be said?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O neighbours, let me pass—but <span class="locked">why—</span></div> - <div class="verse indent0">My God, what makes you women cry?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Come tell me that I too may die!</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Is my love dead?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">“Nay, Marjorie’s a living thing,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">And fair and strong.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Yet did you wait to give your ring</div> - <div class="verse indent4">A year too long.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To seek her love there came the Moon;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Now Marjorie at night and noon</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is chained and sits alone to croon</div> - <div class="verse indent4">The Moon’s love-song.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling in the -Memoir were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found -in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced -quotation marks were remedied when the change was -obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.</p> - -<p>Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned -between paragraphs and outside quotations. 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