Trees, and Other Poems

Part 1

Produced by A. Light

TREES AND OTHER POEMS

by Joyce Kilmer

Edition of 1914.

TREES AND OTHER POEMS

"Mine is no horse with wings, to gain The region of the Spheral chime; He does but drag a rumbling wain, Cheered by the coupled bells of rhyme."

Coventry Patmore

To My Mother

Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold (I know it does) a record of the days When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise For halting verse and stories crudely told? Over these childish scrawls the years have rolled, They might not know the world's unfriendly gaze; But still your smile shines down familiar ways, Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.

More dear to-day than in that vanished time Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong. In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chime, So unto you does this, my work belong. Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme: Your heart will change it to authentic song.

Contents

The Twelve-Forty-Five Pennies Trees Stars Old Poets Delicatessen Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy Wealth Martin The Apartment House As Winds That Blow Against A Star St. Laurence To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself Memorial Day The Rosary Vision To Certain Poets Love's Lantern St. Alexis Folly Madness Poets Citizen of the World To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring The Fourth Shepherd Easter Mount Houvenkopf The House with Nobody in It Dave Lilly Alarm Clocks Waverley

TREES AND OTHER POEMS

The Twelve-Forty-Five

(For Edward J. Wheeler)

Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its head, The smoke, a plume of red and white, Waves madly in the face of night. And now the grave incurious stars Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars. Against the kind and awful reign Of darkness, this our angry train, A noisy little rebel, pouts Its brief defiance, flames and shouts -- And passes on, and leaves no trace. For darkness holds its ancient place, Serene and absolute, the king Unchanged, of every living thing. The houses lie obscure and still In Rutherford and Carlton Hill. Our lamps intensify the dark Of slumbering Passaic Park. And quiet holds the weary feet That daily tramp through Prospect Street. What though we clang and clank and roar Through all Passaic's streets? No door Will open, not an eye will see Who this loud vagabond may be. Upon my crimson cushioned seat, In manufactured light and heat, I feel unnatural and mean. Outside the towns are cool and clean; Curtained awhile from sound and sight They take God's gracious gift of night. The stars are watchful over them. On Clifton as on Bethlehem The angels, leaning down the sky, Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I -- I ride, I blasphemously ride Through all the silent countryside. The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare, Pollute the still nocturnal air. The cottages of Lake View sigh And sleeping, frown as we pass by. Why, even strident Paterson Rests quietly as any nun. Her foolish warring children keep 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.

Part 2

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 winged 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 Cortez 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 titter 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.

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