Joyce Kilmer
Joyce Kilmer
Joyce Kilmerwas an American writer and poet mainly remembered for a short poem titled "Trees", which was published in the collection Trees and Other Poems in 1914. Though a prolific poet whose works celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his Roman Catholic religious faith, Kilmer was also a journalist, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. While most of his works are largely unknown, a select few of his poems remain popular and are published frequently in...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth6 December 1886
CityNew Brunswick, NJ
CountryUnited States of America
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.
When faith did come, it came, I think, by way of my little paralyzed daughter. Her lifeless hands led me; I think her tiny feet still know beautiful paths.
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.
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree
For nothing keeps a poet In his high singing mood Like unappeasable hunger For unattainable food.
IN MEMORIAM: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE She whom we love, our Lady of Compassion, Can never die, for Love forbids her death. Love has bent down in his old kindly fashion, And breathed upon her his immortal breath. On wounded soldiers, in their anguish lying, Her gentle spirit shall descend like rain. Where the white flag with the red cross is flying, There shall she dwell, the vanquisher of pain.
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.
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.
I suppose I 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.
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.
I think that I shall never scan A tree as lovely as a man. . . . . A tree depicts divinest plan, But God himself lives in a man.
Things have a terrible permanence when people die.
There is no place in which to hide when Age comes seeking for his bride.