diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/65652-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/65652-0.txt | 6006 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 6006 deletions
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. In versions of this eBook that support -hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to -the corresponding illustrations. - -Redundant Section title removed on the page before page 17. - -Page 70: “Little Orphant Annie” was printed that way. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE KILMER, VOLUME I (OF 2) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |