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TITLE: TREES, ETC.
AUTHOR: JOYCE KILMER
EBOOK: E04916 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

Trees and Other Poems
by Joyce Kilmer

[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American (New Jersey & New York) Poet -- 1886-1918.]

[Note on text:  There were no italics to mark in this text.
Lines longer than 76 characters have been broken according to metre,
and the continuation is indented two spaces.]

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

Trees and Other Poems
by Joyce Kilmer

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.

[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.]

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.


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