J O YCE KIL ME R

POEMS, ESSAYS AND LETTERS I N TW O VO L U ME S

VOLUME ONE : MEMOIR AND POEMS

Underwood a nd Underwood

JOYCE KI LME R , AGE 30

LAS T CI VI LI AN P ORTRAI T J O YCE KIL ME R

E D I T E D W I T H A M E M O IR BY ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY

POEMS

YORK G EORGE H . DORAN COMPANY ri 4 1 9 1 1918 Copy ght , 19 1 , 7,

o r oran Co m an By Ge ge H . D p y

PRI NTE D I N THE UNI TE D STATES OF AMERI CA JOYCE KILMER

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Many persons have contributed exceedingly

of valuable service to the preparation these volumes .

wher Credit has been gratefully acknowledged, ever feasible, in the course of the text . To make anything like a full record , however, of the names o f that remarkable society, the ardent and devoted

o f friends Joyce Kilmer, would require a chapter . Though particular reference should be made in this ’ place to the invaluable assistance of : Kilmer s life

J r . his long friend and lawyer , Louis Bevier, ; espe cial f friend , Thomas Walsh ; and his o fice associate ,

John Bunker . Permission has been most cordially granted by the editors o f the following magazines for the re

’ printing of the poems from France : S cri bner s

Ma azine G d H usekee in The S atu rda g , oo o p g, y

E venin P ost A m i ca Th B kman E s er e . g , , and oo l says and miscel aneous pieces have been gathered, with the warm approval o f the editors o f these pub lications : The B kman The , from these sources oo ,

Nem Y rk Times S unda Ma azine The B ellman o y g , ,

The Cath lic W orld P etr : A Ma azine Verse o , o y g of , AC KNOWLEDGMENT

’ The S mart S et Munse s Ma azine P u ck , y g and a curiously assorted company, highly expressive of the catholicity o f the mind these pages reflect .

on The article Hilaire Belloc , originally one of ’ Am Kilmer s lectures , was first printed in the erican ’ “ edition of Belloc s Verses . The early poems have ’ A been chosen from Kilmer s first book , Summer ” out n of Love, now of pri t, rights to which are held

M . by rs. Aline Kilmer Poems not otherwise cred ite d have been reprinted from the volumes already publi shed by George H . Doran Company .

R . . C . H

1 9 1 8 . New York, CONTENTS VOLUIWE ONE

POEMS FROM FRANCE ROUGE BOUQU ET THE PEACEMAKE R PRAYER OF A SO LDIER I N FRANCE E - WHEN TH SI! TY NINTH COMES BACK . MIRAGE DU CANTONMENT

POEMS AT HOME

HOUSES

THE PROUD POET LIONEL JOHNSON

FATHER GERAR HOP INS S . J D K ,

THE ROBE OF CHRIST TH E SINGING GIRL THE ANNUNCIATION

TH E VISITATION

153 CONTENTS

E IZ B SP S QUEEN L A ETH EAK . I N ME MORY OF RUPERT BROOKE TH E NEW SCHOOL

EASTER WEEK . THE CATHEDRAL OF KINGS TH E WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED

OLD POETS DELICATESSEN ’ SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER S BOY

WEALTH . M R I N A T . THE APARTMENT HOUSE AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR L ST . AURENCE T Y P KILL HIMS o A OUNG OET WHO ED ELF .

THE ROSARY VISION R I P S TO CE TA N OET .

POETS CONTENTS

PAGE

' To A BLACKB IRD AND HIS MATE WHO DI E D IN THE SPRING 213 THE FO U RTH SH E PH ERD 2 15 2 18 MOUNT HO UVE NKO PF 219 THE HOUSE 220 223 226 227

EARLY POEMS

I N A BO OK

SLEN ER YO R H N S D U A D . S EEP SONG L .

TRANSFIGUR ATION

FO R A BI RTH DAY

PRINCESS BALLADE LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY A DEAD POET TH E MAD FIDDLER E TH GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE . SAID THE ROSE M M RP SIS ETA O HO . .

FO R A CHI LD

THE CLO E S N TO A UD D U ( . THE

’ BEA U TY S HAI R

ILLUSTRATIONS

PA GE “ FA c- SIMILE OF AUTO GRAPH MANUS CRIPT OF THE PEACEMAKER

JOYCE KILMER AGE 21 ,

MEMOIR

T IS the felicity o f these pages that they cannot i l. i s be dul It their merit, pecul ar 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 u nm e asur

A nd . able good . it is their luck to abide many days With their subject how could it be otherwise ?

hr They make not a wreath , but a c onicle , and in t heir assembled facts tell a bright chapter in the his

o o i one tory f ur t me . If there is word which more than any other should be linked with the name of this gallant figure now claimed ( and rightly) by so

certaml is many elements of the nation, that word y “Am ” . a so erican A char cter and a career racy, typical of all that everybody likes t o beli eve that at h our best we are, can hardly be matched, I t ink, out side of stories . I Joyce Kilmer was reported in the papers as hav ing said, just before he sailed for France, that he “ ” was was half Irish, and that why he belonged with l 17 l MEMOIR

- i the boys of the Sixty n nth . His birth was not ex

tl . ac y 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 t Irish character , and with charac eristic gusto feel

in f n . gwithin himself an a fi ity with them Later, in a letter from France to his wife , he was more ex pli cit on this point :

As to the matter o f my own blood (you men tioned this in a previous letter ) I did indeed tell a good friend of mine who edits the book-review page “ ” o f a Chicago paper that I was half Irish . But I have never been a mathematician . The point I wished to mak e was that a large percentage—which — I have a perfect right to call half o f my ancestry o f ou to was Irish . For proof this , y have only refer to the volumes containing the histories o f my moth ’ ’ r e s and my father s families . Of course I am one Am American, but cannot be pure erican in ne blood unless o is an Indian . And I have the good fortune to be able to claim , largely because of the wise matrimonial selections o f my progenitors o n ’ both sides , Irish blood . And don t let anyone pub c to lish a statement ontrary this .

in He also, a letter from France , quoted with

s ar r D ufi much reli h the rem k of Fathe Francis P . y [ 1 8] MEMOIR

that he was half German and half human . English and S cotch st rains made up another half t or three quar ers . The English goes straight back

Kilb urne to one Thomas , church warden at Wood

dilton, near Newmarket , in Cambridgeshire, who “ ” 1 63 8 was came to Connecticut in . The e lost

apparently in Massachusetts , and the word became,

’ as in his mother s maiden name , Kilburn .

di - Sol er blood, too , flowed in his veins though it is likely that this fact for the first tim e occurred to

r - him , if at all, when his natu e rose white hot to

was so sa on arms . He , to y, a Colonial Dame both ’ as o f sides , members both his father s and his moth

’ er 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 6 born at New Brunswick , New Jersey, December ,

1 886 son o f , Annie Kilburn and Frederick Kilmer .

Though he seems always to have been, in familiar l address and allusion , called Joyce , the A fred did not disappear from his address and signature until

o f he began , as more or less a professional writer,

of to publish his work , when it went the way the i ’ Newton in Mr . Tark ngton s name , and the Enoch ’ “ ”

. r in Mr Bennett s . Then Joyce Kilmer acqui ed a [1 9 ] MEMOIR

fine hum orous disdain for what he regarded as the

of h or florid note in literary signatures t ree words ( ,

o f worse still to his mind, the A . Joyce kind thing) and he enj oyed handing down , with much relish of

o f the final and judicial character his utterance, the opinion that the proper sort of a trademark, so to sa f or y, success in letters was something short,

sa t o pointed , easy to y and remember, such as Rud 0 yard Kipling, Mark Twain, . Henry, Joseph

so Conrad, and 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

saw ever , by which is meant, apparently, that he was

a o f so an Odd spect cle . And this , course, is alto gether in line with li terary tradition that it would have been o dd if he had no t been an oddity in the

o f way a spectacle . He wore queer clothes , it seems ,

r o ordina y st ckings with bicycle breeches , and that ’ in sort of thing . He didn t altogether fit somehow,

’ was o f couldn t find himself, somewhat an outsider among the juveni le clans ; he was required to fight other boys a good deal ; he evidenced a pronounced inability to comprehend anything at all of arith metic ; and somewhere between eight and twelve ( so the report goes ) he contracted a violent passion f or [20] MEMOIR

o f -fiv e a lady, about thirty , 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

o f t seemed rather unlikely his a tainment , he made u p his mind to stand at the head o f his class ; and with something like the later Kilm eri an exercise of

will he accomplished his purpose . Kilmer was graduated from Rutgers College in 1 904 1 906 , and received his A . B . from Columbia in . t in His Universi y life seems to have been, outward

e ffect , 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 o f his

o f classmates . He became a member Delta Upsilon

: o f fraternity and he was , course, active in college

j ournalism . Then as always he appears to have f been zestful in living well, to have counted su ficient

t o to the day the excellence thereof, and have been

t oo warm with life to be calculating in expenditures . — He ret ained in the years that followed and it seems to have been the college memory b e retained — most di stinctly a humorous recollection o f his con suming his allowance on an abundance of rich [2 1 ] MEMOIR

o f viands during the first few days each month , and being reduced to the necessity of living precariously on a meagre ration o f crackers and sandwiches — thereafter until next income day . Characteristic of the vehement manner in which he went after life, as a Sophomore Kilmer became

o f engaged to Miss Aline Murray, New Jersey, a

- o f r o f step daughter Hen y Mills Alden , editor ’ H r e Ma azine a p r s g . 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

o f instructor Latin at Morristown High School .

ai So slight a l d he was , even several years after this

t ffi disci time , tha it is di cult to picture him in the p linary adventures o f the classic figure of this call ing . His problems at Morristown doubtless were

m o f dissi ilar to those his early, Hoosier , prototype . i . H s He married and became a householder 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

so sa no b o . was , to y, life for a y At the conclusion of a year’ s teaching he tore up the roots he had [22]

MEMOIR

and b e she e ensis , guessed kn w something about mi writing . The editorship came to an abrupt ter nation .

Then followed a brief sojourn, at a salary of ( I think ) eight dollars a week , as retail salesman in the

’ n book store of Charles Scribner s Sons , a dig ity which the young littérateur wore with humorous di gnity f or exactly two weeks . A distinct mental iInpression o f him o f this time presents him as decid edl i ff y l ke an Eton boy in general e ect , 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 gra

ci ous . , slightly courtly, young presence He gave

m o f l forth an aro a exce lent , gentlemanly manners .

He frequently pronounced , as an indication that he “ ” ou ? had not heard y clearly, the word Pardon with a slight forward inclination of his head, which , altogether, was adorable . His smile, never far

a ni away, when it c me was win ng, charming . It

so broke like spring sunshine , it was fresh and warm and clear . And there was noticeable then in his eyes a light, a quiet glow which marked him as a spirit

S O not to be forgotten . tenderly boyish was he in effect that his confreres among the book clerks ac cepte d with difficulty the story that he was married . [2 4 ] MEMOIR

When it was told that he had a son they gasped their

t o ne increduli y . And when day this extraordinary elfin sprite remarked that at the time o f his honey moon he had had a beard they felt ( I remember ) that the world was without power to astonish them further . in As a retail salesman , however , this exceed gly t interes ing young man did not make a high mark . ’ “ ” One s general impression o f him on the floor is a

o f i picture a happy student, stand ng, entranced , frequently with his back to the door (which theoret i cally he should have been watching for incoming i customers ) , day after day engrossed in perus ng a “ ” o f rare edition Madame Bovary . One sensational

o f feat business he di d as a clerk perform . Mis n w readi g, in his ne ness to these hieroglyphics , the cypher in which in stores the prices o f books are

on o f marked the fly leaves 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 ex citem ent di s the matter being immediately rectified, aster for the amateur salesman was averted .

’ was At Scribner s a close friendship , almost at once , formed between the youthful poet and another then unpublished writer acting at that time in the [251 MEMOIR — same capacity of clerk a friendship which was never diminished by the num erous shiftings o f Kil ’ o f t mer s fields activi y, the multitudinous , diverse and ardent interests which he acquired in an ever

o f mounting measure, and the steady addition num b erless friends of all classes who eagerly yielded him their devotion . It was rather a friendship which was continually cemented by increasing and closer ’ of l t bonds . It was a part Ki mer s spiri to make his first friend in his li terary life a Sharer as far as was

own possible in each new success of his . One among many, innumerable , instances of this was his con t ri v in fl g, by his in uence 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 ( 1 9 1 2 - 1 9 1 3 ) when he was the bright and shining star reviewer for the New York Times R e vi ew o Books i f . The regular Tuesday lunch ng to gether o f these two friends when their offices were

a own widely separated bec me , at least in their fancy, an American literary institution . The two were united in all the symbols of affection between

o f men . And at seasons rej oicing and adversity the

t o o Kilmer house was his friend as his wn. It is to ’ this one who among all o f Joyce Kilmer s friends owes him the greatest debt of friendship has come [2 6] MEMOIR

o f hi of the supreme trust writing, wit n the power his

c many and onscious limitations , this Memoir , and edi ting these volumes . Dropping the very small bird which he held in his

o f hand in the way a secure salary, the spectacular bookseller, somewhat to twist the figure, plunged

n lexi co again into u charted seas , and became a

o f grapher, as an editorial assistant in the work pre

a paring new edition of the Standard Dictionary . He blithely began his Johnsoni an labours by defin ing ordinary words assigned to him , at a pay of five ff cents for each word defined . This is a very di er ent thing indeed from receiving a rate o f five cents a word for writing . It is a task at which you can obtain an average o f perhaps ten or twelve dollars “ t o a week, though some weeks s ickers will hold y u back . It soon became apparent, evidently, that it was advisable to put this very capable pieceworker on t a salary ; and he was rapidly promoted , wi h cor responding increases in remu neration (reaching an amount of something like four times his initial earn

of : e ings ) , to more advanced phases the work r search into dates o f birth (involving correspondence with living celebrities ) research into the inception o f as inventions ( , for example, the introduction o f the barrier into horse racing) ; together with the [2 7] MEMOIR d n o f f or in efi ing words of contemporary origin, in ,

o f st ance , the nomenclature aviation . In this last

ofli ce mentioned department , it was his to call upon authorities , such as the Wright brothers , and upon presentation o f his credentials to receive precise in

v im formation . He inter iewed famous tobacco t ff por ers , and co ee merchants ; compiled in the New York Public Library material about fans ; nu earthed f or use as an illustration a picture o f a strange bird ; or was assigned to collect for this pur

o pose designs f ancient mouldings . If lexicography was Kilmer ’ s venerable occupa

r tion, by political faith he was at the time, this ve y young, young man, a socialist . He subscribed for Call and frequently contributed to the newspaper . And the height of his effervescence was in address

O f was ing meetings the proletariat . He , it must “ ”

. fr be said , a burning young radical He e

uente d o f q , to some extent , a club that name . And with a j oyous consciousness of being in the char acter o f his surroundings he ate meals at the Rand

School o f Social Science . He rapidly acquir ed

o f a wonderful string queer acquaintances , in whose idiosyncrasies he took immense delight .

of a Some, not the persuasion, fancied that as an d herent of the socialist party he was merely enam [2 3 ] MEMOIR

oure d o f an intellectual idea . At any rate , when ever in conversation he spoke of socialism , as he frequently did , his graceful, amiable young feat ures assumed a very firm and earnest aspect .

o f Exactly the point transition , if there was any

rolet a~ decided point, I cannot recall, but from the p “ ” o f b e riat he passed to the literati . A man letters came a great word with him . And he looked rather proudly about as he said it , as a Scot might speak o f the doughty deeds o f the Scotch . He was wont “ ” to refer, too , to the intellectual aristocracy . His luncheon engagements were now mostly with this

o f order humanity, and his anecdotes featured such figures as Richard Le Gallienne and Bliss Carman — men whose personalities delighted his heart b e yond measure .

ou How absurdly juvenile he looked . But y would have noted , as you observed him, that he had a very

o f r t fine head , something like that A hur Symons

or ( without the moustache ) , I thought ; , according ’ o Th t Mr . Le Gallienne s sympathetic picture in e “ Bookman : Though the resemblance was perhaps only a spiritual expression , his then thin , austere

r young face, with those strangely st ong and gentle i eyes (eyes that seemed to have an ndependent , i e o f dom nating exist nce ) , reminded me Lionel [29] MEMOIR

Johnson, for whom he had already a great admira tion, and whose religion he was afterwards to em ” if brace . Or, again , he seemed as 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 n men anyone had ever seen walki g about , so much

or brighter and purer, some indescribable thing, that he did not seem altogether real . A feeling h which I think was shared by many, and w ich I have never quite been able to make articulate, Mr . Le Galli enne has most happily expressed with his “ ” own easy charm ; that is the hint of destiny in this “ e—mas very concentrated, intense young presenc

not : culine intense, feminine We have all met young people who give us that — su erab un beautiful, brilliant, lovely natured, so p dant in all their qualities ( and particularly perhaps in some quality o f emanating light ) -as to make them suggest the supernatural, and touched, too , with the finger o f a moonlight that has written “ our fated upon their brows . Probably feeling is nothing more mysterious than ou r realisation that temperaments so vital and intense must inevitably tempt richer and swifter fates than those less wild winged .

all Above , this young gentleman was the portrait of a poet, even (in those days ) of the type of liter [3 0]

MEMOIR

he has a classical simplicity, a restraint and sincerity o which make his poems satisfying . Some f his ’ “Al ” shorter poems , such as exander and Lycon and “ ” The Toys , approach Landor in their Greek econ “ ” omy. Of course , the Angel in the House, and o f many other his poems , are marred by Tennyson “ k ” ian influences . But the Un nown Eros is a work i s o f stupendous beauty . It certainly supreme among modern reli gious poems . That part o f it devoted to Eros and Psyche is remarkably daring

fine . and remarkably Psyche symbolizes the soul, o Go i and Eros the love f d . The r amour is de s cribed with realistic minuteness , even with humor o u s fli anc pp y, and yet the whole poem is alive with religious feeling .

o f The finding Patmore, by the way, was wha t ’ l fin er - might be ca led a g post in Kilmer s life . The fortunate introduction was performed by, it is my ’ im ession m , Kilmer s friend Thomas Walsh . If in cold print to - day there is a slightly prepos terou s 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 pres

o ence of s much handsomeness and grace, combined

so o f with much flexibility mind and agile humour, even this was an engaging thing . There was to Kilmer nothing whatev er dry-as [32] MEMOIR dust about the erudite business o f lexicography instead his impressionable nature fou nd among his

- u o f co workers a rich , a colo rful, an exciting school f humanity . He glowed continually with a fection ate amusement at the motley band of literary ad

of a venturers , intellectual soldiers fortune, who p

arentl . p y were his colleagues One, the most motley perhaps of all ( the long cherished dream o f whose ancient bachelor life it was o ne day to write a pop u lar song) , touched , for the first time, I think , the — deepest Spring o f 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, o f And wore an overcoat glory .

II ! And then , lo the aesthete became a churchman . After a couple o f years or so o f lexicographic em

on ployment , work the dictionary was completed, and Kilmer entered what, with immense gusto , he “ ” described as religious journalism . He became

Th hu rchman literary editor of e C . He had completed a very thorough course in up town New York apartment house life (living, I [3 3 ] MEMOIR

m z think, in rapid succession in so e half do en speci “ mens of the great stone box cruelly displayed ” severe against the pleasant arc o f sky ) and now

o f removing to the suburban village Mahwah , New

Jersey, in the Ramapo foothills , he entered upon his

’ career as one o f the world s most accomplished com

t o sa o f muters . He used y, with a spacious gesture

O f the arm and a haughty inflation the chest, that it

not was no life at all, no life at all, for a man to swing around an orbit o f at least sixty miles a day f ! between his o fice and his home . His home, even so I never have seen a vagabond who really li ked to roam All up and down the streets o f the world and not to hOm e have a . What more exhilarating experience than the

’ owning of a home ! A nd o ne paid one s installments on the building loan with the fine pride of a man exercising a noble prerogative . Yes , he often f walked to Su fern along the Erie track, and medi “ t ted on a 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 . [3 4] MEMOIR

t o As became a churchman, he began hold forth to his companion o n the train to and from the city on

of n the fascinations the A glican poets . Either hi s e nthusiasm for the subject resulted in a series o f

on or articles the theme , an assignment for such a

’ s o f eries articles resulted in his enthusiasm, I don t know which . The significant point is that it was “ to j ust as like have been either way about . Passon ” — — Hawker Robert Stephen Hawker Vicar o f

- — Morwenstow, a coast life guard in a cassock who can recite off hand the deeds o f his piety and his ? valour Well, on the Erie smoker he became one o f

o f the most romantic figures story . Robert Her

in o f rick, a manner speaking, went home many a

on - — night the Twelve Forty Five (Robert Herrick, “ ” that is , with his Unbaptized Rhimes left out ) , and Bishop Coxe returned on the Seven-Fifty-Six i n the morning . Kihner had already done a few book rev iews for The Nati on and f or the New York Tim es; but at The Chu rchm an he acquired such a proficiency at this exercise that he was able, j ocularly, to regard “ r A nold Bennett, as a literary journalist , as a mere ” “ o f amateur . The real reward religious journal ” o or ism , however, it soon developed, was the pp tunity of writing a feature which the secular might [3 5] MEMOIR

call an editorial, but the proper name of which this e ditor pronounced, in the tone and with the manner of one who was consciously engaged in somethi ng “ d ” grand, gloomy and peculiar, as a me itation .

o f The real meditations Joyce Kilmer, however, “ ” not so were meditations called , and partook in no

w o f i . ise of the nature ed torials He had been, in the

racefu l trou b adour who main, a g thrummed pleas

- ant things to his lady love , and had a bright eye to

fine his singing robes . He had thought it rather , t o o o f Riche in , that refrain in imitation p

May booze be plenty, bulls be few, ’ in The poet is the beggars k g .

He had even been much taken, artistically, with the thought o f absinthe : 0 h little green god in your crystal s rine, Your heavenly dream -shower shed ! I t was when his business took him near to God, i when his explor ng spirit, upon a peak in Darien, beheld that :

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree,

t . tha he began to be a poet Trees , which more than all the rest he had written put together made [3 6] MEMOIR

P oetr . A Ma azin his reputation, appeared in y g e of

rs 1 9 1 3 . Ve e in August, At about this period it was that he was altogether born again . Then, doubtless in castigatory reaction “ ” own against his aesthetic and decadent wild oats , entered into his fibre that sovereign di sdain f or the intellectual flub - dub which later gave such a de “ ” lightful note o f horse -sense to all his humor — “ ’ ous 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

o Wh Killed Himself . “ ’ f or I ve been leading a rather active life , several ” fre days , was with a gay salute of the hand , a

ilrner a 1 9 1 2 quent K i n remark . In the direction of the New York Times R evi ew of Books fell into the

- - hands of a high spirited young man, a Max Beer

ohmian t t b character , with a decided tas e for gaie y in

who r vi . e ews , Mr Wetmore, conducted that organ through what is known in New York journalistic “ ’ t radition as its meteoric period . Mr . Wetmore s wit perceived in Kibner his happiest rocket . Not only given his head but egged on by his editor to

o r o f u n strive f sublime heights fantasy, this fairly known contributor shot in a series o f reviews which f or d readability was, the applause now in icated , an [3 7] MEMOIR altogether new thing in the book pages of an Amer “

. b a ican newspaper This is a bad book , a very d. ” “

so t . book, indeed, ran the s yle It is bad because ” it makes this reviewer feel old and fat and bald .

If, together with their humorous assumption of a

of j ovial cocksureness manner, the literary judg

of - ments expressed were, necessity, snap shot judg

was - ments , there nothing snap shot nor assumed about a certain quali ty in them which in general

f all am re e fect was the most striking of , n ely, the flection in a very positive way o f a radi antly clean n i and wholesome you g nature, abound ng in mental and spiritual health .

A s o f t e one h general prime movers in, and for a number of years Corresponding Secretary of The

r o f on Poet y Society America , Kilmer engaged the side in activities which for many another would have been in themselves almost a whole job . A fervent

Di ck ensonian , he was for a long period president and ( one felt) the animating principle o f the Am er

Ofli ces ican Dickens Fellowship . He accumulated to such an extent that I am doubtful if anyone but himself knew exactly how many employments he

or one . had altogether, at any moment He con ducted the Poetry department o f The L iterary D i est f or g something like nine years , an obligation [3 8]

MEMOIR he neglected altogether to prepare any outline b e m forehand, and even someti es to choose a subject .

Every now and then, I have known him repeatedly

sa to y to his companion at dinner , without , however, “ o f : any trace at all nervousness Now, look here

on . Put your mind this Stop all that gossip . Tell ’ me what I m to talk about . I have to begin ( look

-fiv e i ing at his watch ) in twenty m nutes . He was particularly active in the affairs o f the

’ o f Authors Club , and was a member the Vaga bonds , the Columbia University Club and the

P u er r i u ena 9 1 3 to r . 1 offi Alianza g In he ceased ,

ciall t o . F or y, be a churchman a brief period he

o f contemplated the prospect a professorship , lec turing o n English Literature at the University o f the South , Sewanee, Tennessee . Then , to his great — delight, he became a newspaper man as he continu “ ally put it, with much relish in the part, a hard ” m n ite newspaper a . He became a special wr r i f or

New York Tim es S unda Ma azine the y g . I am sure he saw himself in fancy as one o f those weather beaten characters bred in the o ld -time newspaper k school of booze, profanity and hard nocks , his only text-book the police - court blotter and the moulder o f - his youth a particularly brutal night city editor . m i t He maintained, with hu orous arrogance aga ns [40] MEMOIR

r m opposing a gu ent, the thesis that every great “ ” ha writer d got his training as a newspaper man .

o f He delighted to point, as illustrations this , to

Dickens , to Thackeray, and to a lot more, who, in “ not any strict sense of the word , were newspaper ” men at all . Hard pressed , he even stood ready to make some such hilariously sweeping assertion as

e ak that Georg Eliot , Sh espeare, Tennyson and “ n Robert Brow ing were, properly perceived, news ” paper men .

At any rate , this hard newspaper man had to begin with a comical equipment f or his task : he would never learn to typewrite and he knew nothing

was of shorthand . Or rather, he remarkably well

o ne o f i o f equipped, as the outstand ng traits his

sa character was the fearless zest with which , so to y,

o f he took the hurdles life , and a peculiar faculty in triumphing over such obstacles as his own limita n tio s . He rapidly invented a curious system o f t abbrevia ions 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 o f the “ ” Sunday story . He interviewed, figuratively di speaking, the man who had scovered the missing [4 1 ] MEMOIR

link, and he got from the latest inventor of perpet ual motion all the arresting details of his machine . And a li vely part o f the early Sunday morning ritual at his home was the advance calculating with ’ a tape measure o f the week s income from space writing . It was later that he created his own highly suc cessf ul type of literary interview . An intelli gent

o f perception the business , a perception which is not i general, perhaps is requ red fully to appreciate the fact that in this department o f newspaper work he was an exceedingly skillful j ournalist . The secret of his really brilliant success in this field lay in large part in his instinct f or luring the distinguished sub

e ct o f i j his nterview into provocative statements , l “ enab ing him to employ such heads as : Is 0 . Henry a Pernicious Literary Influence ? ” “ Godlessness ” “ r Mars Most Contempora y 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 o f the death o f James Whitcomb R iley, Kilmer hurried to the Catskills for his inter

his view with Blis s Carman . On way back to the [42] MEMOIR

city, by way of his home at Mahwah , he dashed with his usual impetuosity in front of the moving train n he was seeking to board , was k ocked down and hurled or dragged a considerable distance , and ff taken to the Good Samaritan Hospital at Su ern , in New York, with three ribs fractured and other juries ; where , wiring immediately to New York for his secretary, he dictated an interview as engaging and as full of journali stic craft as any he ever

s on wrote . He eemed much more intent his Sun

r . day story, it is repo ted by H Christopher Watts , t who was ac ing as his secretary at that time , than on his predi cament .

di d not see I Kilmer at this time myself, but I have an idea that, when he had relieved his mind o f the anxiety concerning his article , he entered into i the spirit of his experience with much rel sh . It ’ one t isn t every day that gets hit by a rain, nor h E xhil everybody that as three ribs broken . arat

o f ou ! ing kind thing, when y see it that way I re member one time when I was practically in hospital myself he went to a good deal o f trouble to come to see me . He seemed to adm ire 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 circum [43 ] MEMOIR

st ances over which you had no control . When shall we look upon his like again !

III

I really doubt very much whether anybody ever enj oyed food more than Kilmer . The slender youth had become a decidedly stocky young man, who ate mammoth meals with prodigious satisf ac

to tion . He delighted upon sitting down breakfast t to maintain, with almost savage earnes ness (such was ff di the amusing e ect) , that the most fitting sh

o f for that meal was steak . As a matter fact, how ever, his habit was to miss his breakfast altogether t through has e to catch his train, except for a cup of ' ff co ee and a piece of buttered toast which , when he ’ missed the bus , he ate, a mouthful every dozen or so on leaps , his way down the hill ( almost a moun tain ) to the station . Sundays , however , with the whole day at home , he apparently regarded among other things as a sort o f barbecue . Looking over the morni ng table it was his custom t o inquire with the air of a man making a fairly satisfactory begin

f or . ning, what was scheduled dinner

Kilmer never ate any lunch , as the ordinary world — understands the word about the first hour o f the afternoon he went (when his means had become [ 4 4] MEMOIR such that he could afford it ) to a sort of Thank sgiv ing or Christmas dinner every day . How proceed

to is ofli e ing directly h c he did any work afterward , was always considerable of a mystery to me . And lunching alone he doubtless regarded as a misan thro i c v p per ersion . His luncheons and his frequent dinners in town alone represented what many would r r egard as a rather arduous social life, which howeve arduous , however , never failed to include the weekly

- l Mrs. r . uncheon with his mother, Kilbu n Kilmer

[As so an epilogue, to say, to his meal it was his wont u to have , speaking his order slowly so as to s ck the “ ”

ul o f the . f l flavour idea , a large black cigar One tim e being in the city with his family for a

o f of period after the birth one his children, he gave a series o f Sunday morning breakfasts at a fashion able restaurant ( it was a pleasant crotchet with him that he was “ a fashionable young entertain ments which were distinguished by , first, the fact the guests so abundantly represented the world of journalism that they filled a good portion o f the

of room , and, secondly, by the circumstance their lingering at the board until mid- day diners began

to arrive .

How a poet could not be a glorious eater , it was

’ i im see one of K lmer s wh s to say, he could not ; for [45] MEMOIR the poet was happier than other men by reason of i his acuter senses , and as his eyes del ghted in the

o f so beauty the world, should his palate thrill with ’ pleasure in the taste of the earth s bounteous yield

o f for the sustenance men . The romance, too, of the things we eat he felt lustily .

Rich spices from the Orient, k And fruit that knew Italian s ies .

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 o f some ancient receptive ” child ( frierid o f his ) who managed to bring up a

d - family of seven ( or so) chil ren by ill p—aid hack work occupying most Of the day and night a noble

' c di I e su cess entirely to noble meals . are ale ale ale at are as Thi s man has home and child and wife s t And battle e for every day .

.This man has God and love and life ;

a . These st nd , all else shall pass away

' ’ ” And this man s days were long, long days ’ o f - hos Kilmer s home, a place boundless week end pitality and almost equally boundless domesticity [4 6]

MEMOIR

t hi m The la ter class , indeed, apparently regarded as a kind o f a clearing house for employment . A singularly convincing commentary on the radi ating humanity o f this brilli ant young man was one rather grotesque feature of his mail . In addition to a con stant and copious stream o f requests from persons

n or him but slightly k own , quite unknown to , for

in f or advice as to how to succeed letters , and his

irn rim atur on personal p their enclosed manuscripts , he was apparently constantly in receipt of innum er

o f t able epistolary stories ex raordinary distress , suf f ere d (generally) by elderly characters defeated in the lists of literature . Though there was in Kil ’ mer s robust nature a decided distaste , somewhat analogous to the innate aversion of the clean in “ f or ine f Spirit to moral obliquity, what he termed ” f ectu al o f people, there was too an amusing strain

o f paternal feeling toward most , of those all ages An d l n with whom he was in contact . this fee i g he did not neglect, whenever the occasion arose, to f translate into practical e fect . He had a comical manner o f terming his elders ” - - ix S o S o . s i young and I was years his sen or, which at the period o f li fe at which we met repre ’ difl erence in sented a considerable experience .

A nd our yet, throughout association, in spiritual [48] MEMOIR

k A n b e was o a . d force the , I the clinging vine I know of cases where this was quite as much so when the other man was something like fifteen years the di e lder . One such instance, lu crous in its con

to trast between the two men , was confessed me with deep feeling just the other day . “ ” “ ” ’ S o -long or good-bye was seldom Kilmer s t parting word . It was rather a word he con inually used which will be thought of as peculi arly his as

o f long as his memory endures , the closing word “ ” saw is Rouge Bouquet . The last time I him at h home, then at Larchmont Manor, New York, my companion (in marriage ) and I upon leaving al

our so most missed car, which started a block or

A s o f from the Kilmer house . the three us dashed a fter it, Kilmer stopped this car by what seemed to me something like sheer force Of his willing it to

t . s op 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 benedic ” : ! so tion Farewell Children . Yes , it is even ; as the spirit is measured and the frailties of the soul k are numbered, how many who new this wondrous boy were his “children” ! The wisdom o f the maxim A busy man is never ” too busy to do one thing more was indisputable in [49] MEMOIR

. was so the spectacle of Kilmer Though this not,

b e one far as I recollect, a maxim employed, he had

own n of his somethi g like it, which admirably

hi s l summed up practical phi osophy . When con

was fronted by some financial dilemma, he fond of “ : t declaring The demand crea es 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 f or the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled ! s Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless trife, A nd the sting o f His chastening rod !

There was nothi ng incongruous to Kilmer about the incongruity expressed in a communication written in 1 9 1 6 Garesché to the Reverend Edward F ,

a S . J letter which began by saying, I am sorry that your letter o f October 1 1 has been so long un answered, but this has been the busiest month of my ” life ; whi ch then told of his 10 0 ping the loop of the country in lecture engagements ; proceeded to di s cuss a matter which had made a strong appeal to his

u o f c heart, the fo nding an Academy of Catholi Letters to be called the Marian Institute ; and con [so] MEMOIR

l th cluded with the remark, I will glad y take on e work of acting secretary until the members make ” their own selection .

IV

1 9 1 3 ’ In , Kilmer s daughter Rose, nine months of

. was age, was stricken with infantile paralysis It n then, upon his bringi g his family to town to give t his daughter the reatment of a specialist, when he

to l s came my house to te l me of this, that I first di

tinctl l i u — y rea ised that th s yo ng 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

f r n death as a result o f her a fliction . Du i g the course o f his stay with me that day he said several times , “ o ff Well, there are lots of people worse than I ” i am . Th s idea, too , it was apparent, he felt he

An his . d must hold before him then, with amazing

r and unconquerable flai for life, he launched upon “ ” i r i a the theme that th s was a ve y interesting d se se, and he elaborated the thought that an infir mity of the body frequently resulted in an increased vitat i of the m nd . “ I like to feel that I hav e always been a Cath [5 1] ME MOIR

” olic, was a sentiment frequently expressed by Kil mer . It has repeatedly been declared by friends v ery close t o 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

ul them, but that with respect to religion as partic ar ised in himself he kept silent, would never discuss

c the steps that led to his onversion, and it was only by chance they discovered he was a daily communi I t 1 9 1 3 cant . was late in that Kilmer astonished the little world that then comprised his family, his hi s friends and acquaintances by entering, with wife, the Roman Catholic Church . One afternoon not long after this occurrence he not so much in vited as directed me over the telephone to meet him

f or that night dinner at the Columbia Club . His

u p rpose soon became clear . This was the only n solemn hour I ever spent with Kilmer . I thi k it well to record here what b e 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 hi s

r the war . count y entered world He was , of course, nl the same in fibre then as before . O y then was known to him and visible to others what was latent ( 521 MEMOIR

i was in hi s heart . And in th s sense it , I think, that

not it was clear to him that he did become, but had l always been a Catho ic, though he had not earlier

st realised it . He tried all things and held fa to that dl which he found good . He was inwar y driven to seek until his spirit found its home . That only the

o f time 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 him

he a s . self before became, as we y, a convert Then

l o f r his fluid spiritua ity , his yearning sense eligion, “ ”

z . as sa was stabili ed What is the secret, we y, of

o f ? all that has been told his ability His courage,

his mental and physical energy, were , manifestly, in unusual . But his character, the faith that he H . is embraced, found its tempered spring talent was a winged s eed which in the rich soil which had

o n mothered s much art found fru ctificatio . It is not an unsupported assertion to say that he was in his time and place the laureate of the Catholic

o f Church . His sentiments as to the function a Catholic poet he has expressed very positively in

his essays and lectures . He j oyed in the new proof given by Helen Parry Eden “that piety and mirth ” “ may comfortably dwell together . A convert to ”

w of . on Catholicism, he rote Mr Yeats Lionel [53 ] MEMOIR

15 Johnson, not a person who wanders about weep t n ing over au umn winds and dead leaves , mumbli g

Latin and sniffing incense . Nor is it necessary to ’ “ ae on lay sthetic hands the church s treasures , and decorate rhymes with rich ecclesiastical imagery and ” the fragrant names of the saints . But in Faith “ o ne may find that purity and strength which are the guarantees of immortality .

31 And , once a Catholic, there never was any pos ’ bility o f mistaking Kilmer s point of view : in all l matters of re igion , art, economics and politics , as

as t hi s well in all mat ers of faith and morals , point o f view was Obviously and unhesitatingly Catholic . Considerable as were his gifts and skill as a poli tician o f in the business his career, the veriest zealot could not say that he did not do the most unpolitic

i o hi th ngs in the service f s faith . A very positive

figure, he laboured tirelessly, alternating from one

field to another, for the Catholic Church . As a brilliant interpretative critic o f Catholic

r w iters , such as Crashaw, Patmore, Francis

Thompson, Lionel Johnson and Belloc, he brought,

sa I think I may venture to y, an altogether new touch into Catholic journalism in America, a strik “ ” u i of ing and disting shed blend piety and mirth , which had the rare and highly efiectiv e quality of £54]

MEMOIR

him in the form of sardine sandwiches . The rapid ’ of l r i development Ki mer s lectu e bus ness, which soon assum ed the proportions of no mean career in m itself, i mensely extended his force as a quicken l ing influence in the Catho ic world . Before so cieties and educational institutions in many places , lli I n frequently trave ng as far as Notre Dame,

du diana, and Prairie Chien , Wisconsin, he flung his “ bright portraits o f seekers after that real but elu hi sive thing called beauty , a thing w ch they found in their submission to her who is the mother o f all

all learning, all culture, and 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 h ” since Bill Nye and James W itcomb Riley, as the

o f circular the J . B . Pond Lyceum Bureau stated “ ” it, the young American Poet and the author o f “Pigs is Pigs contributed considerably to the light ening o f the rigours of existence by an extended “ repetition of a j oint evening of readings from their ” works . Ellis Parker Butler , in a letter before me, writes of his partner on the programme : [56] MEMOIR

He was a most charming travelling companion and an ideal team-mate for the purpose we had in “ ” not o f mind . I would have thought 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 Kilm er . He was altogether lovable and loved .

It would be a decidedly false estimate of Kilmer which failed to note, even with some emphasis , that “ of he was an excellent man business . He played ” n f ul the game, in the exceedi gly di fic t j ob of earn ing 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 to those who sought rival him . The Kilmer cult which grew apace was considerably accelerated by a

Kilmeri an rich 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 o f the word with a strongly humorous con scio u sness o f the feat as a part o f the immense sport o f living . Kilmer ’ s act as it was observed from behind the scenes is excellently presented by an associate in the

f New York Times o fice of the . This writer says in the P hiladelphia P ress : [57] MEMOIR

Our editor analysed him into three distinct n : man ers Kilmer , the literary man ; Kilmer, the lecturer ; and Kilmer, himself . His first appear ance in the office would give you the cue to him for nn the day . If he came in gri ing with his pipe draw i n b e g well , we would know that nothing was to “ ” feared ; he was himself . When he got his literary on o f manner , the symptom was a tapping his eye fi o f glass , with his right hand on the ngers his left . When he appeared in his cutaway coat and a partic u larl on y pastoral necktie, we knew that that day the elderly ladies o f This Literary Club or the young ladies of That Academy were to be treated to a discourse on certain aspects of Victorian verse . ou t One day he came in, obviously decked for a

l . t ecture Wi hout his having said a word about it, ’ the assistant Sunday editor spoke up : Let s cu t ” o ut work this afternoon and hear Kilmer lecture . ' “ A o f e look horror overspread his fac . For ’ ’ ” “ ’ heaven s sake , don t , he said . I couldn t go ’ of through with it . I don t believe any us ever did hear him .

c n A thing whi h I found very si gular was that, in manner Kilmer was apt, in the two or three later

o f on years his life, to give strangers their first meet ing the immession of being somewhat too dignified f or so o f f young a man, being, as his o fice associate

Uohn Bunker in an admirable, even a remarkable, [58] MEMOIR

o f him Zmeri ca portrait at this period published in , “ ” says , in fact just a trifle pompous . Mr . Bunker “ continues : This was due partly to his physical ap

earance p , and also , insofar as it had any basis in h reality, to that protective instinct w ich 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

imm e same perverse instinct which causes you, di ately after talking with a deaf person , to speak very loud to your next auditor whom you very well know

i s can hear perfectly ; that , it was the result of being keyed up to appearing on an elevated platform b e

on fore a curious throng . He e time astonished me by the declaration that it was only by, quite early in

s li his life, drastically choo ng 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 o f the Kilmeri an pontifical manner is o f a time when he generously invited me to have my shoes polished

t o with him , thrust his hand deep into his pocket pay the boy, paused , and with a very large gesture i in directed him to call in aga n later the day . There is first-rate perspicacity in the remark o f ’

d u . one of Kilmer s frien s , La rence J Gomme, that [59] MEMOIR

was at one score and ten he , in the amount that he

i . n had l ved, about seventy years old Somethi g of

’ the force and sharpness of Mr . Bunker s evocation o f 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

o f n O he gave me the impression bei g somewhat lder .

t o I afterwards spoke of this him, and it was his theory that newspaper work had served to age h ' The truth was that it was due not merely to his

’ newspaper work , but generally to the incessant and

x n flam intense mental activity , the e traordi ary and

t en e ar ing energy, where y he crowded into y s the b ‘ ” o li experiences f several ordinary fetimes . And

of i i s this touch the sl ght Bunker portrait , I feel, essential to any fuller picture

A his s to physical aspect, he was stockily built di u o f and about me m height, and his habit body was u what I should call pl mp , though later, under the o f stress military drill, he changed somewhat in this last respe—ct . I noted at once that he had a remark able head well rounded, with broad and high for cov head and a very pronounced bu—lge at the back , ered 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 [60] MEMOIR peculiar quality which I can only inadequately sug l gest by saying that they iterally glowed . It actu ally seemed as if there were a fire behind them, not a leaping and blazing fire, but a steady and unquench able flame which appeared to suffuse the whole eye ball with a brooding light . This characteristic was so striking that I cannot help dilating on it . And on I observed later that this glow, this brooding and somewhat sombre light, never left his eyes even in his or - so most weary most care free moments , that they gave the impression o f what I believe was the fact—the impression of a brain behind them which was working intensely and perhaps even feverishly o f every hour the waking day .

The better poet Kilmer became , as his friend “ Richardson Wright says in his admirable A ppre ” in The Bellman ciation , the less like a poet he An . d acted after he grew up , he would about as

ae o ff l soon have stheticised, the platform , as he wou d have forged a check . Whenever he did refer to o p etry as related to himself he , as the slang term ’ in o f has it , took it smil g . One Kilmer s most pro nounced pet aversions was the phrase , utterly ” ’ mawkish to him , about prostituting one s talent .

one a He time explained to me, with considerable p

: parent pride, that he used every idea three times in

in . a poem , in an article, and a lecture [61 ] MEMOIR

di o Charles Willis Thompson, an e t rial writer of

New York Times the , and to whom belongs the

di n un cre t of first taki g, as editor of the S day Maga ’ “ ” zine B ok R eview stu fi and o , Kilmer s in any “ so sa amount, inspired, to y, the poem Delicates ”

in . . sen, this way Mr Thompson happened to re mark to Kilmer that o f course there were a lot of ’ h ~ things w ich couldn t be treated in poetry . Kil mer declared he would like to know what they were .

Mr . Thompson cast about in his mind for the most

f or of ridiculous theme a poem he could think , and finally proclaimed that no one could possibly write a poem about such a thing as a delicatessen shop . “ ’ w i ” I ll rite a poem about a del catessen shop , Kil “ l mer promptly replied . It wi l be a long poem . ’ - I ll sell it to a high brow magazine . It will be much ” in admired . And it will be a good poem . He

on sum o f sisted on betting this the several dollars . “ ” The origin o f The Twelve - Forty- Five I do not n exactly k ow . But I remember shortly before that i poem was written, sitt ng disgusted and miserable with Kilmer in that horrible “Jersey City Shed” waiting for the midnight train . Taking out of his fift - mouth that villainously large, y cent pipe (men

ion t ed in all genuine appreciations ) Kilmer, with “ : a fervour almost violent, suddenly exclaimed I [ 62 ]

MEMOIR

d worldly succe ss . He achieve the one as he did the i other by a masculine heart and m nd . And while

was im os all things were necessary and j oyous , it p

all r sible not to feel that, after , th oughout his day “the rhymer ’ s honest trade” was his primary con cern .

f u He was su ficiently grounded in literat re to feel, “ Galli enne as Mr . Le says , no weariness with those literary methods whi ch had sufficed f or Chaucer and

and or Shakespeare Milton , or Catullus or Bion,

— r a Francois Villon content, with everent mbition, ” t o i t tread that mmor al path .

his li In re gious mysticism a trace, and more than

o f a trace, has been found of Crashaw, Vaughan, of f and o . Herbert, Belloc and Chesterton And there i s no difficulty at all about finding in Kilmer hints i of Patmore, and there may be easily recogn sed

o f something of the accents of A . E . Housman and

R . di d Edwin Arlington obinson He , indeed, to

the put it in a racy phrase , have drop on those who do not know that all art that endures must have its “ roots in a constant interrogati on of the unimpeach ” o ol able testimony f the ages . His song was as d as the hills , and as fresh as the morning . Precisely h in t is , in fact, is his remarkableness , his originality, a s o s a contemporary p et ; and in thi will be, I think, [ 64] MEMOIR

his abiding quality . Simple and direct, yet not

J . without subtle magic, wrote Father James

o f h Daly, S J in a review Trees and Ot er “ A m erica Poems , printed in , his verse seems art

i s lessly na ve , yet it possesses deep undercurrent of masculine and forceful thought ; it is ethical in its

as i - seriousness , and yet playful and l ght hearted as ” sunlight and Shadows under summer oaks . And this admirable summing up of Kilmer ’ s talent leaves little more in the way o f direct criticism to be said .

Galli enne Mr . Le with felicitous tact of phrase “ has touched upon this , that no young poet of our

on so time has so reverently, many pages , in so

f so m many di ferent ways , playfully at ti es , as in ‘ o f that masterpiece playful reverence , A Blue ’ o f Valentine , woven through the texture 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

’ L adies H ome J ournal led to an interesting tribute “ to the author of Trees . Many readers of the J ournal were somewhat startled to find the editor attributing to John Masefield the lines : A tree that looks at God all day

And li fts her leafy arms to pray . £65] MEMOIR

The following issue of the magazine contained thi s

k : correction and ac nowledgment by Mr . Bok I am free to confess that I did not k now the cor i Masefie rect author . I had been read ng John ld that morning and unconsciously wrote his name as o of the author f these lines . A number friends have i po nted to the error and supplied the knowledge .

The author is Joyce Kilmer, and to him I owe, and o f here express , my sense deep apology . The ex uisit e i o f Masefield q l nes were worthy John , but that does not make them less worthy of their right ful author , as all will agree who read his beautiful “ ” in hi s work book Trees and Other Poems .

one ff r As , somewhat e usive commentator has e “ ” i ' i marked , T ces just could not be confined with n

o f the covers a book . At once reprinted in news papers throughout the United States ( and still b e ing so reprinted) it was crowned in that warmest of all ways in which a work o f 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 : nu nca vere un poema tan bello y tan intenso . U n arbol silencioso que con ansia se aferra a la dulce y jugosa entrans de la tierra . [66] MEMOIR

U n 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

U r enia Spanish by Salomon de la Selva , Enriquez n a d others , and have appeared in a number of prom inent South American papers .

o In a letter from France to Edward W . Co k, who in quest of material for a book on contempo rary poets had written Kilmer asking several ques

r on tions , Kilme commented , among other things , his “earlier efforts in poetry ” ( as the questionnaire apparently had put it ) , in a manner which is evi dence again o f how perfectly well he knew what he “ consi was about . If what I nowadays write is d “ ered poetry, he announced , then I became a poet

- in November, Admirable for hard headed ness , 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 ” ni trai ng . The peculiar thing about these highly skilful experiments in various forms of craftsman ship 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 Gal [ 67] MEMOIR i irnm aturities l enne notes , from those artistic which have made many old great poets angrily denounce ‘ ’ of fir st A n unlicensed reprinters their editions . d

le in this fact they have a decided, and a perfectly

itimate e of g , int rest for the observer the develop ment of his talent—though Kilm er declared “they

i s were worthless , that , all of them which preceded ’ ‘ n a poem called Pen ies , which you will find in my ‘ ’ “ book Trees and Other Poems . He added, I want all of my poems written before that to be f or gotten . w He was riting, one remembers , to a gentleman with whom he was so slightly acquainted that he i “ ” d h . ad ressed m as Dear Mr Cook, with the meas

o f ure whose sympathy and critical acumen, it is n to be i ferred, he was not conversant, and who pre sumably was about to estimate (with what perspec tive he could not perceive) his earliest productions . It were better to head off any uncertainty in the n ’ matter . Also , we all k ow, one s hot impatience with one ’s strivings of yesterday is mellowed by time into an amiable and appreciative tolerance of ’ ff o t diffi one s earnest e orts f twen y years ago . It is cult to think that Kilmer at fifty would have had an unjust scorn of those charming exercise s on the t - poetic sc ales he wrote a twenty one . [68] MEMOIR

oh Anyhow, no man can , by decree or otherwise , literate his past ; both the good and the bad that he

as h done continue to pursue him . Ten times thrice

o f happy is he , rarest 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 di e those verses on which

o f ar e glistens the dew his tender youth . They brought forth for praise by no mean critics in trib ute 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 i s reprinted in these volumes .

He that lives by the pen Shall perish by the pen ,

o f li saith the wisdom James Huneker . For a sap ng poet , within a few short years and by the hard busi

o f ness words , to attain to a secretary and a butler

of and a family , 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

t M ods first to las , from the verses contributed to o in “ ” 1 909 to the last poem he wrote , The Peacemaker,

S atu rda E enin P ost printed in the y v g in October, ’ “

1 9 1 8 . , Kilmer was a poet s poet A pretty good ” i his poet, said such a poet ( shak ng his head at con [69] MEMOIR

i H i s v iction of the truth of this) as Bl ss Carman . poems were repeatedly adjudged high places among the best poems read before the Poetry S o

iet c y. 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 Qu een s

W rk l 1 9 1 7 a o , in Ju y, , an award competed for by m n r great nu ber of poets , includi g many in othe ’ countries . He was a poet s poet who declared (with co nsiderable vehemence , I remember) that he cer h “ ” tainly wished e 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 ” t sirn ler n o f hu poe ry . As a singer of the p a nals

r manity his place will d aw closer and closer, I think,

own to that of the most widely loved poet of our era . Only the name o f James Whitcomb Riley expresses in greater measure the rich gift of speaking with a uthentic song to the simmest hearts . A man who believes that churches are devices of the devil and literature a syrup for crack-brained females can en wi j oy, th profit to his soul, The House With No ” “ ” “ body In it, Dave Lilly and The Servant Girl and the Grocer’ s Boy” equally with “The Old ’ ” “ ” i - O r hant Sw mmin Hole and Little p Annie . [70]

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t : lm e o u by this Joyce Ki er did not talk po try , but he did talk exactly like his essays , which admirably present the brave humorous wisdom of the man as n his intimate friends k ew him . Official critical authority did not dampen his “ ’ di VVarner verve . As a contributing e tor of s ’ ” of su Library the World s Best Literature , he p

Ou plied the articles Madison Cawein , John Mase

field Thom , William Vaughn Moody and Francis p n so . He contributed prefaces to various volumes of standard authors . Excellent examples o f this department of his activity are his Introduction to ’ “ ” Thomas Hardy s The Mayor o f Casterb ridge in the Modern Library, his introduction to the Amer “ ” of o f l ican edition the Verses Hilaire Be loc, and the introduction to the volume “Dreams and I m ” o f ages , his anthology Catholic poets . The Intro 1 65th duction to this Anthology is dated Regiment, Y 1 9 1 7 Camp Mills , Mineola, N . . , August , just a ’ year before Sergeant Kilmer s death in battle . Doubtless few know that at one time Kilmer had “ o f drawn a contract to write a Life Father Tabb . Because of peculiar complications in the situation h this enterprise, most unfortunately, fell t rough . In 1 9 1 6 Kilmer was called to the faculty o f the t School of Journalism of New York Universi y, in [72] MEMOIR

t succession to Arthur Guiterman, to lec ure on “ ” Magazine and Newspaper Verse . The obj ect 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

n It seems rather a misnomer, and somethi g 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 Eng

o f . land , Merrie England , was course , patent His

r delight in London, and the English count yside , which he knew from a child , was manifest . The

of pillars his fairly large literature were , of course ,

l o f t Eng ish . His profound sense integri y was vio lentl um y jolted by the violation o f Belgi . As the

on t war went , however , he developed an a titude which was quite capable o f being interpreted as

- t so Pro German, by anyone in erested in interpret in t i g it . The explanation of this a titude is s mple t enough . Ins tinctively a combative charac er intel [73 ] MEMOIR lectu all hi s y, his humorous essays , w ch expres ed him

o n s intimately, almost without exception fou d their n Spring in his running cou ter to some current idea . “ one f emin A S he time remarked , he was bored by i sm s too inv ari , futuri m, free love and, , he was

ma ably f or the under dog . It y seem rather gro t esqu e to present Germany by implication as an

do of n i s under g in the early years the war ; the poi t , the force o f the argument was so overwhelmi ngly against Germany that Kilm er reacted to this in a characteristic fashion, stood boldly against the cur — in rent, and was , in fact, a neutral until the S king

. di of the Lusitania All reports agree, inclu ng even reports from sources o f strong anti -Engli sh 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 .

o f his so Outside Lusitania poem he did not, far as i I know, denounce the deed ; but the unan mity and the precisionwith which the change in him is fixed im by all who observed h is striking . Kilm er ’s successive literary passions were a curi ous 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 f u o nd a humorous sport in defending, with j ov ial [ 74] MEMOIR

old- i c emphasis , the fash oned chivalrous roman e

ae against the scientific modern novel . In his sthetic

o f period he had a touch , hardly more, Oscar Wilde, though early in his literary career he experienced a

in eitu s rather severe case of Sw b urn . Some time shortly after this he was very much intrigued by the ’ S haem as O Sheel Celtic revival . , a friend dating back to Columbia days, bears testimony that an ’ early boast of Kilmer s was that an ancestor o f his ’ ’ had been hanged for taking a rebel s part in ni nety

’ eight . And though as we know, Kilmer s imme l diate ancestry was not Irish , a Gae ic enthusiast

S o f su who has made a pecialty the Irish language, g

s i s ge ts in his ardour, that the name Kilmer a deriva f l o . ff tion Mac Gi la Mor At any rate, an a ection — di for Ireland her literature , her lore, her tra tions,

- him and her people was indeed natural with . In hi s Yeats period Kilmer had about chosen ” Nine Bean Rows as the name of his house then in

o f the course construction, though it was not alto “ ” o f t gether clay and wa tles made . The thing which deterred him from this decision was that per “ I nnisf ree sons unacquainted with the poem , to whom he spoke of the matter, conceived his address

Beanro se as Number Nine Avenue . What a funny

s r is . L r r t eet, they said, that ite a y merely, of [75] MEMOIR

re course, that ; and though a part of the whole , mote from later, deeper and graver things . Some thing 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 o f their being Irish was the reason why b e regarded them and their work as writers with friendship .

He did , indeed , like all manner of Irish . He liked i i l the Irish fa ries , he l ked Lady Gregory, he iked most decidedly the poor Irish people who went to the Catholic church , and ( as he later showed) , of di all soldiers , Irish sol ers he liked best .

Romantic Ireland is not old ; F ora ears i y untold her youth w ll shine, on Her heart is fed Heavenly bread,

The blood o f 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 martyr s of

O f ul Easter Week . In certain qualities his so a kin ship with these spirits may readily be traced .

Some Of them, I have been told, he knew personally ;

f or and his reverence Plunkett he has written . [76] MEMOIR

h T ere is no rope can strangle song, And not for long death takes his toll ;

No prison bars can dim the stars , li Nor quick me eat the living soul .

of r And all that Kilmer wrote , every line it , he w ote w in two ways ; he wrote it in words , and he rote it in ’ of his acts . When the idea the Poets Meeting to express the sympathy of American poets with the three Irish martyred poets of Easter Week, Pearse ,

MacD onou h t g and Plunke t, first occurred to l ’ Eleanor Rogers Cox , she asked Ki mer s advice “ And about it over the telephone . he said , Go ’ ” I ll ou ahead, back y up , with the result that the meeting, a success , took place in Central Park, with

Edwin Markham presiding, Kilmer, Margaret

W iddem er Cox , Miss , 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, A nd Of w who David , the singing king the Je s , was

born with a sword in his hand . [77] MEMOIR

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 o f his

song .

i of Indeed, in the log cal scheme things ( or, at any ’ o f rate , in Joyce Kilmer s scheme things ) the poet di l is a sol er, an idea ist with the courage Of his song ; n and, in a man er of speaking, all soldiers are poets,

or i f or whether not they ever pen a l ne, they give

of supreme expr ession to the conviction their soul. n And then, as Christopher Morley has fi ely 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 perfect ly dum

n r foundi g if, when war was decla ed between his

no t country and Germany, he —had done exactly as he did . It is inconceivable to picture him moving f in . about here, from restaurant to O fice , 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 . i He ha ted many things , but I bel eve that of all [78]

MEMOIR N i ew . Reg ment, National Guard, 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 1 5 1 9 1 7 July , ; and Kilmer expected to go to train ing camp somewhere in the South for a couple of “ or months , then to be sent to France , or Russia, ”

or . Cuba , Mexico or somewhere else He had a

di ~ great staste for going to Russia, because he di s

one m liked cold climates . He ti e expressed a de cided 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 t l countries . I wou d not , of course , have been Kil

mer 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 1 824; and Joffre ” two weeks ago . If you had not seen the dress uni form 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 feel ” ings , he wrote requesting a friend to be quite frank “ w . con ith him Hard military character, seriously ” siderin of g acquisition of habit chewing tobacco . Shortly before the Seventh left New York f or [80] MEMOIR

was S partanburg, South Carolina, Kilmer trans

own l 65th ferred, at his request , to the Infantry, l A . o d U . S . , formerly the famous Fighting Sixty ” o f ninth , New York , a unit the Rainbow Division ,

CM l . assembled at p Mil s , Mineola, Long Island He was most particular to impress upon his friends the point that he had been transferred at hi s own

do so so volition . I not know that he ever said , in many words , but I gathered from him the impres sion that a considerable part o f his motive in having himself transferred was occasioned by his beli ef that the 1 65th would go sooner than the Seventh to the “ too battlefield . Then , , as we know, he was half ” Irish ; and an Irish -American regiment doubtless was t o 1 65 a powerful magnet him . In the th the “ people he liked best o f all were the wild Irish boys

o f who left Ireland a few years ago , some them to escape threatened conscription, and travelled about

on the country in gangs , generally working the rail roads . 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 chil [81 1 MEMOIR

dren, named respectively Kenton Sinclair, Rose ,

Deborah Clanton and Michael Barry . One day he appeared in my Office on an errand of business re

r lating to the handling of his litera y property . He

f ad was , in outward e fect, perfectly composed, an

o f was mirable picture a young soldier . It then, in

xtr o what followed, that he displayed the most e a r

inar of d y, the most amazing, measure spiritual stat ure that I ever observed in any man or ever read o f 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 “ o ut : ff . Then he said Bob , my a airs 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

son died ; yesterday my , 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 f other di ficulties . That was all he said as to this .

He then talked excellent business . I went to the him elevator with . We shook hands more quietly “ - than usual ; he said, Good bye , Bob and the door o f hi m the car closed upon , standing erect in hi s mil [ 82] MEMOIR

I

t n s . i ary overcoat, looki g somewhat seriou That was all .

From Company H . Kilmer was transferred , t within a Short ime, to Headquarters Company, and exchanged his eight hours a day of violent physical “ n exercise ( most deadening to the brai , a useful ” one anodyne for , coming as it did after my grief, “ he wrote in an intimate letter ) for exacting but in ” terestin i g statistical work . Though called Sen or Regimental Statistician he continued to rank as a

w o f private . His work as under the direction the R egimental Chaplain , Father Francis Patrick f Du fy . He was thankful, he wrote from Mineola m in a letter at this ti e , that he was not with the

Seventh at Spartanburg, as from Mineola he could ‘ ’ to : telephone his wife every night , and he said I ll be an accomplished cuss when I get back from the — ’ wars I ll know how t o typewrite and to serve Mass ‘ ’ and to sing the Boston Burglar .

It was the pleasantest war he had ever at ”

so . tended , he wrote back from France Nice war , ” r nice people , nice count y, nice everything, he said on the back of a postcard . To the Reverend James [83 ] MEMOIR

. D v J aly he wrote, When I next isit Campion, ’ ‘ ’ I ll teach you (in addition to The Boston Burglar ) ‘ an adm irable song called Down in the Heart of ’ ” - t . the Gas House Dis rict I sing it beautifully . “ di A nd as a common sol er , I have the privilege of intim acy with the French peasants—and I find ” them edifyingly good Catholics . But his pleas ures 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

was the lines . When the war 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

all in the background, there is in that he wrote from l France, it seems to me, a reflection that his ife was ,

so sa . A nd to y, somewhat in disarray clearly enough , though proudly, too , in the few poems that he sent back he spoke his body’s pain

hi s n Upon will he binds a radiant chai , ’ F or Freedom s sake he is no longer free . o f It is his task, the slave liberty, his own With blood to wipe away a stain .

That pain may cease, he yields his flesh to pain,

To banish war, he must a warrior be ; ls He dwel in Night, eternal Dawn to see,

And gladly dies , abundant life to gain . [3 4] MEMOIR

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 cheek) .

I may not li ft a hand to clear M r y eyes of salty drops that sea .

( Then Shall my fickle soul forget Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat ? )

My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers

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

i f Lord , Thou d dst su fer more for me

Than all the hosts o f land and sea .

So let me render back again

Am . This millionth o f Thy gift . en [85] MEMOIR

Though he said, I have very little chance to read ” out contemporary poetry here , he did read, as he “ ? ‘ of says , what do you suppose The Oxford Book ’ English Verse . And he hoped that contem porary poetry was reflecting the virtues which are blossoming on the - o f — blood soaked soil this land —courage , and self abnegation, and love , and faith this last not faith in some abstract goodness , but faith which Go d

Himself founded and still rules . France has turned to her ancient faith with more passionate devotion i than she has shown for centuries . I bel eve that

America is learning the same lesson from war , and is cleansing herself o f cynicism and pessimism and materialism and the lust f or novelty which has hampered our national development . I hope that o u r poets already see this tendency and rejoice in —i o f it f they do not they are unworthy their craft .

Just what eff ect the war would have had on Kil mer had he been spared is o f course an entirely elu ” one a sive topic, has said very ble and on the whole most valuable commentator, speaking from the testimony then in hand , and voicing, I fancy, an

not idea still rather general . It is now, I think, an

as elusive topic at all, but a matter plain as a pike

is ff . A n sta d the matter , by the way, the second of [86]

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t o else . It was my mind an illogical hypothesis that he could be frustrated by obstacles . And I felt l that, inexp icable as it was for Kilmer to fail in

o r anything 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,

ca any more telling proof that he had genius , the

acit p y to become an absolutely great writer, than this : that in this war which has prompted more peo “ ” ple to write , and has produced more copy than

o f nearly all the other events history put together , he ceased altogether to be a j ournalist o f any kind that is , even the instinct of the j ournalist dropped

e . from him , wh n he touched it

o f He had had no thought, he says , attempting to “ ’ : report the war If I had , I d have come over as a ” o f correspondent instead as a soldier . All his days he had been trying t o get closer and closer to the

o f n heart life . In the war his profound i stinct for t humani y 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 de v elops in us a sort o f friendship I never knew in

o f civilian life, a friendship clean j ealousy and [ 88] MEMOIR

—a gossip and envy and suspicion fine , hearty, roar

O f o f ing, mirthful sort thing, like an Open fire whole ’ ” - pine trees in a giant s castle . “ He was at present a poet trying t o be a soldier .

To tell the truth , I am not at all interested in writ i n S O g nowadays , except in far as writing is the ex

o f . se e ,pression something beautiful And I daily and nightly the expression of beauty in action in ” o f stead words , and I find it more satisfactory . “ My days of hack writing are over , for a time at least . Upon his retu rn to civilian life his civilian ” “ A S work may be straight reporting . for that — mob of war writers (thank God let me pharisaic — ally say that I am not one of them) The book ? “ The only sort o f 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 ! ”

’ “ KilIner s o f Holy Ireland , a sketch a lodging f or the night enj oyed by a little group of Irish

American soldiers at a farmhouse in France, is the only piece o f prose writing o f any extent at all that

o f came from him overseas . He himself wrote it to “ ‘ his publishers : I sent you a prose sketch Holy ’ i Ireland , which represents the best prose writ ng I

n o f can do nowadays . It is u mistakably a piece

is to sa literature, that y, though slight enough in [89 ] MEMOIR

o f t r substance, a work firm and exquisi e and endu ing art .

Gare sché In a letter to the Reverend Edward F . , f J . one o S . , the last he wrote, the following para graphs occur

I have written very little—two prose sketches and two — c poems sin e I left the States , but I have a rich store of memories . Not that what I write —I matters have discovered, since some unforget w t table experiences , that ri ing is not the tremeu o u sl You d y important thing I once considered it . see will find me less a bookman when you next me, and more, I hope, a man .

. : And he ends with these words Pray for me, my

Go d dear Father, that I may love more and that I — may be unceasingly conscious o f 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 pro “ ” on motion I am now a sergeant , appears the “ ” - — back o f 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

o h g away for t ree months to school, and then [90] MEMOIR

— ’ 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 ’ 69th this crowd . I d rather be a sergeant in the 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 o f bright gold on the left cuff ’ f o r six months service let my children be ” “ ” o f proud it . And , a long moustache I have . ’ F o r a while he had worked in the Adj utant s

f o f e O fice , having special charge recording and r h “ porting statistics . Then e was no longer ( thank

doing statistics . Someone over here had “ ” “ - . one said that he had a bullet proof j ob I had ,

i i but succeeded , after two months intr gu ng, in get ” “ o f ting rid it . At that time I was just an office — hack now I am a soldier, in the most fascinating

o f — branch the service there is sheer romance, night ” nd — a day especially night . He had become at t ache d to the Regimental Intelligence Section , O ” working as an bserver very amusing work , “wonderful life ! ”—“the finest j ob in the army ! But “ I don ’t know what I ’ll be able to do in civil — “ ian life unless I become a fireman ! I am hav n ’ i g a delightful time , but it won t break my heart ” to for the war end . [9 1 ] MEMOIR

Rouge Bouquet was his first attempt at versi ” “ - fication . in a dug out He had lived in billets ,

- s dug outs , trenches , observatories and all sort of ”

. was queer places And at length , he ( after a most violent and amusing month ) resting ( six hours ou t - ! of every twenty four ) in a beautiful place, among the firs and pines on a lovely mountain top , “ o from which I can see strange things . I sleep n 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 Kilm eri an pleasure he contemplated what he called “my senility” ' icture m self I p y 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 o f dry sherry which belongs to every o ld man s or breakfast . I cannot think of myself at seventy eighty—I grow hysterical with applause—I am lost in a delirium of massive ebony canes , golden

- f l . snu f boxes , and dainty Si k hats

’ When we first met over here, wrote Kilmer s ’ O D onnell 3 3 2d I n friend Charles L . , Chaplain

t o S fautry, in a letter Thomas Walsh which hould be “ written into the record, he was in the personnel [92] MEMOIR

of n department his regiment , havi g had his time o f 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 o f it was he as to be ready to reli nquish 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

m o ti e t see his friends . He was worshipped by the men about him . I have heard them Speak with awe o f 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

he sector . I can only conceive that he distinguis d himself later in the larger Opportunities that came ” : his way . The letter continues

he We were both in the army but was also of it . I was amazed to find him so quickly become a sol ’ o f dier with the soldier s point view . But he had so seen much more than I , even then , and each day in this war is equivalent to long campaigns o f other

. him times I felt , and was a rookie beside . He had got a perspective on his life at home that made him smile with indulgent pity on some li terary aspect s [93 ] MEMOIR o f it . I spoke of what must have been his earlier o f views , the good he was doing and the need doing i it . But he was not ready to rel nquish a position he o f ff had bought at the price su ering, cold, hunger, fatigue, with the hourly self denials that military o f i discipline means . Not that he spoke these th ngs in this way, but I knew they had gone into the crea tion o f his new stand and I knew in my heart it was higher ground .

A closer witness is Sergeant-Maj or L emist l Esler, who served side by side with Ki mer in the

Marne advance . Shortly afterward returned to the United States f or service as an instructor at an army cantonment, he said in an interview in the “ New York Tim es : The front was his goal and no sooner had the regiment reached France than he f made every possible e fort to be transferred .

He finally had himself moved t o 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 Kilm er was a per t o feet trial me . He would always be doing more f or— t than his orders called that is , ge ting much nearer to the enemy ’s positions than any officer to would ever be inclined send him . Night after ’ li e out l night he would in No Man s Land, craw ing ff through barbed wires, in an e ort to locate enemy [94]

MEMOIR 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 irnm em orial self had she stayed her tragic hand t from this shining figure , ype and symbol in his tak

o f ing her unscrutable ways with man . And, some how in o f one , his death his life was all a piece , and

hi s cannot but admire the poetic justice of 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 A nd - r your memory shine like the morning sta . Sergeant Kilmer was killed in action near the “ ”

3 0 1 9 1 8 . Ourcq, July , He had, runs the report

The S tars and S tri es o f in p , the newspaper the “ American Expeditionary Force, volunteered his services to the major o f the foremost battalion b e cause his own battalion would not be in the lead that ” day . From the report O f Sergeant Esler and a letter (printed in the New York Times ) to a friend in New York by Alexander Woollcott, dramatic [ 96] MEMOIR

T m critic of the i es before his service abroad, the facts are established .

o f 28 At the dawn a misty Sunday, July , the 1 65th had made a gaHant 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

o f battalion adjutant fell and, in the emergency the

or battle , without commission appointment, he was serving as a sort o f aid t o the battalion commander . Discovering that the woods ahead harboured some m achine guns , he had reported this fact, and was sent in the lead o f a patrol to establish their exact lo

o f cation . When a couple hours later the battalion a dvanced into the woods to clear the spot o f the en ’ emy, several of Kilmer s comrades caught sight of him lying, as if still scouting, with his eyes bent over

S O was a little ridge . like his living self he , they

u — called to him , then ran p to find him dead with a bullet through his brain . He lies buried, we read, beside Lieutenant Oliver Ames at the edge o f a little copse that is known as the Wood of the

r so Bu ned Bridge, close to the purling Ourcq that, t s anding by the graveside, one could throw a pebble i its nto waters . Perhaps ten minutes walk to the [97] MEMOIR

north lies the half obliterated village Seringes , cap tured by Am erican troops the night before Kilmer

o f ff i was killed . Eloquent a ection in the mak ng of

o f it, the grave is course , marked by a wooden cross , “ ” on . which is written, Sergeant Joyce Kilmer

of Then, after the inscription his company and regi “ : t — 3 0 ment, is the line Killed in Ac ion July , l f It is not a ru e to bury enlisted men with o ficers , but Kilmer had Won so much admiration and re spect not only from the enlisted men in his company

f m of but also from the O ficers , that the com ander the regiment authorised that his grave be dug on the spot and that he be buried next t o the grave o f 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 ’ o f Kihner s their breaths , and the news death , he “ on says , greeted me every turn . The Captain under whom he had been serving for several months , the Major at whose side he fell, stray cooks , dough — i boys , runners all shook the r heads sorrowfully and talked among themselves of what a good soldier he had been and what an infinite pity it was that the

n out And bullet had had to si gle him . in such days as these, there are no platitudes of polite regret .

are l n When men, good men and close pals , fal i g [ 98]

MEMOIR

’ k own v o e d them . The lines were read by Joyce s f beloved Father Du fy, and those who were there told me the tears streamed down the face o f every m boy in the regi ent . They just blubbered .

VIII

o f Indeed, such was the power his spirit over o ther men that even now he has become a legend , his excellence a popular heritage , benefiting and

o f enriching human life . Writing with the pen all those who knew him in his overcoat o f glory and debonair hat, his friend Charles Willis Thompson “ says : I had a great affection and a deep admira ff tion and respect for him , di erent from that which ” f o r . I had anybody else I knew And expressing, m I think, the heart of innu erable 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 fu ll beauty o f his life is known only to God . As religion was the first thing in hi s life let it be the

l . one ast thing said of him In of his last letters , ’ e me n i . E r O h wrote to Sister M e t a f St . Joseph s [ 1 00] MEMOIR

: 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

so t o Communion every morning, it ought be all the e f o r o f asier me to attain this obj ect my prayers .

ou . I hO e I got Faith , y know, by praying for it p to get Love the same way .

[ 1 01 ]

ROU GE B OU QU E T

N a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet

- - There is a new made grave to day, Built by never a spade nor pick h k Yet covered with earth ten metres t ic .

li e There many fighting men,

Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again m Nor taste the Sum ertime . For Death came flying thr ough 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 o f the land they fought to free

And fled away . Now over the grave abrupt and clear Thr ee 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 . [ 1 05] POEMS FROM FRA NCE

Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,

i . ,You w ll not need them any more ’ Danger s past ;

Now at last, ” GO to sleep !

There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodi es of the brave Than this place o f pain and pride

Where they nobly fought and nobly died . Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand i Smiling with t—he r holy eyes On this new come band . ’ e r a St . Micha l s sword darts th ough the ir And touches the aureole on his hair

A s i he sees them stand salut ng there, His stalwart sons ;

A nd Columk ill Patrick, Brigid, Rejoice that in veins o f warriors still

’ The Gael s blood runs . ’ And up to Heaven s doorway floats,

e From the wood called Rouge Bouqu t, A delicate cloud of b uglenotes That softly say: Farewell ! [ 1 06]

THE PEA CEMA KER

i PON his will he binds a radiant cha n, ’ F or Freedom s sake he is no longer free .

is o f It his task, the slave Liberty,

With his own blood to wipe away a stain .

his That pain may cease, he yields flesh to pain .

To banish war, he must a warrior be .

s see He dwell in Night, eternal Dawn to , r A nd dl gla y dies , abundant life to gain .

? What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead ’ NO flags are fair, if Freedom s flag be furled .

W ho f or fights Freedom, goes with j oyful tread

o f To meet the fires Hell against him hurled, And has for captain Him whose thorn-wreathed head

Smiles from the Cross upon a conquered world . ( I LE RE P RODU CTI ON O F A N AU TO GRAPH MANU S CRI PT L AS T P OE M W RITTE N BY J OYCE KI LME R

POEMS FROM FRA NCE

WHEN THE SI! TY-NINTH COMES BA CK — HE Sixty -ninth is on its way France heard

it long ago, ’ And the Germans know we re coming, to give them

blow for blow . ’ on We ve taken 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

thf: fill air with song, And the Shamrock be cheered as the port 1s

neared by our triurnphant 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 ; sea We left behind the land we love, the stormy we

c rossed . THE SI! TY-NINTH COME S BA CK

o f m We heard the cry Belgiu , and France the free

and fair, ’ fi htin - t For where there s work for g g men , the Six y t nin h is there .

The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls shall

fill the air with song, And the Shamrock be cheered as the port i s

o neared by ur 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

- Six ty ninth comes back .

The men who fought at Marye ’s Heights will aid us

sk from the y, They showed the world at Fredericksburg how Irish

soldiers die .

n us At Blackburn Ford they thi k of , Atlanta and Bull Run ; There are many silver rings on the old flagstaff but ’ ne there s room for another o .

’ The Harp that once thr ough Tara s Halls shall fill the air with song, And the Shamrock be cheered as the port is

neared by our triumphant throng. [ 1 1 1 ] POEMS FROM FRA NCE

With the Potsdam Palace on a truck and the

Kaiser in a sack, New York will be seen one Irish green when the

- Sixty ni nth comes back .

our God rest valiant leaders dead, whom we cannot forget ; ’ They ll see the Fighting Irish are the Fighting

Irish yet . ’ on While Ryan , Roe, and Corcoran History s pages

shine, ' A wreath o f 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 -ni Sixty nth comes back .

[ 1 1 2]

POEMS A T HOME

POEMS AT HOME

MA IN S TREE T

F or ( S . M . L . ) L IKE to look at the blossomy track of the moon

upon the sea,

’ But it isnt half so fine a Sight as Main Street used to be When it all was covered over with a couple o f feet

of snow, And over the crisp and radi ant road the ringing

sleighs would go .

Now , Main Street bordered with autumn leaves , it

was a pleasant thing,

its And gutter's were gay with dandelions early in the Spring I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the

heat, t Because I think it is humaner than any other s reet .

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 o f

work that never ends , St But it cannot be human like Main reet, and recog i nise ts friends . [ 1 1 8] MA IN S TREET

There were only about a hundr ed teams on Main

Street in a day,

or t u And twenty thir y people, I g ess, and some chil

dren out to play . ’ or o And there wasn t a wagon or buggy, a man r a girl or a boy ’ r w That Main Street didn t emember, and someho

seem to enj oy .

The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train t w .They make the weary ci y street reverberate ith pain But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made b e ’ neath a butcher s cart .

God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across

sk the y, That ’s the path that my feet would tread whenever

I have to die .

s a Some folk call it a Silver Sw rd, and some a Pearly

Crown , i I n Ma But the only th ng thi k it is, is in Street,

’ H v n ea entow .

[1 1 9] POEMS AT HOME

ROOFS

(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

HE road is wide and the stars are out and the

o f breath the night is sweet, A nd this is the time when wanderlust should seiz e

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 f or a i human dwell ng 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 tram p who Slept in your barn last night and left at break o f day Will wander only until he finds another place to

stay .

A gypsy-man will sleep in hi s cart with canv as o ver head ; ’ s i Or else he ll go into hi tent when it is t me for bed . [ 1 20]

POEMS AT HOME

THE SNOWMAN IN THE YA RD ( For Thomas Augustine Daly)

’ HE 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 t every hing I own , And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a

row of poplar trees .

nl Now I have o y a little house, and only a little lot,

And only a few square yards of lawn, with dande lions 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 hi s trees from Spain and France

and everywhere, And raise his orchids under glass in the mi dst of

all the snow . [ 1 22] THE SNOWMA N IN THE YA RD

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

ff li - b e To toil and su er their fe time through ,

of sin cause the 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 .

who But we inherit the primal curse, and labour

for our bread ,

of Have yet, thank God, the gift 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 . [ 123 ] POEMS AT H OME

A BL U E VAL ENTINE

( F or Aline)

ONS I GNO RE ,

Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus ,

F erni Sometime of Interamna , which is called ,

o f o f Now the delightful Court Heaven,

I respectfully salute you, I genu fle ct

A nd I kiss your episcopal ring .

It is not, Monsignore ,

of The fragrant memory your holy life,

Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,

Which causes me now t o address you . n But si ce this is your august festival, Monsignore, It seems appropriate to me t o 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 reflec tions

On everything that She looks at, Such as a wall Or the moon

Or my heart . [ 1 24]

POEMS AT HOME

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 .

of But, your courtesy, Monsignore, Do me this favour : When you this morningmake your way

‘ To the Ivory Throne that b urst s int o bloom with

o f roses because her who sits upon it,

ou When y come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,

ou : I beg y , say to her

one o f S Madame, a poor poet, your inging servants

yet on earth , Has asked me to say that at this moment he is espe cially grateful to you ” For wearing a blue gown .

[ 1 26] HOU SES

HOU SES

( F or Aline)

HEN you shall die and to the

Serenely, delicately go ,

ou Saint Peter, when he sees y there, Will clash his keys and say

Now l Chri stO her ! ta k to her , Sir p ! And hurry, Michelangelo

She wants to play at building, And you ’ve got to help her play !

Every architect will help erect

on o f A palace a lawn cloud,

With rainbow beams and a sunset roof, And a level star -tiled floor ; An d at your will you may use the skill i Of this gay angel c crowd ,

When a house is made you will throw it down, ’ And they ll build you twenty more .

F or Christopher Wren and these other men Who used to build on earth Will love to go to work again ma If they y work for you . [1 27] POEMS AT HOME

’ ! 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 it s 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 .

POEMS AT HOME

S O did the ghosts o f toiling children hover About the piteous portals o f 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

o f Before Christ left the Citadel Light,

of i t To tread the dreadful way human b r h, His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth

saw And those who it wept with j oy and fright . “ ” sun ! Thou art Apollo , than the more bright

o f They cried . Our music is little worth, ' thrill our But blood with thy creative mirth, ” o d of ! Thou g song, thou lord of lyric might

O singing pilgr im ! who could love and follow

’ r Your lover Christ, th ough even love s despair, You knew within the cypress -darkened hollow

on o The feet that the mountain are s fair .

was ll For it Christ that was your own Apo o,

An d thorns were in the laurel on your hair .

[ 1 30] APOLOGY

A POL OGY

(For Eleanor Rogers Cox)

OR blows on the fort o f evil

That never shows a breach, F or terrible life -long races

no To a goal 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 j oy over disappointment

And delight in hopes that were vain. Each poet i s glad there was no cure

To stop his lonely pain . For nothing keeps a poet In his high Si ngmg mood Like unappeasable hunger

For unattainable food .

S O fools are glad of the folly

That made them weep and sing, And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne

And Drummond f or his king . [1 3 1 ] POEMS AT H OME

They know that on flinty sorrow And failure and desir e The steel o f their souls was hammered

To bring forth the lyric fire .

Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett , McD onou gh and Hunt and Pearse See now why thei r hatred of tyrants

W as so insistently fierce . ’ Is Freedom only a Will -o -the -wisp To cheat a poet ’ s eye ? ’ or s Be it phantom fact, it s a noble cau e 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 ’ f or li But their fetime s passion,

The quest that was fruitless and long, They chorus their loud thanksgiving - n To the thorn crowned Master of So g .

[ 132]

POEMS AT HOME K And David, the Singing ing of the Jews , who

was born with a sword in his hand . It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to

and the Wars died, ’ An d Sir Phi lip 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 A s the war'mth and whiteness that come from the .

li nes of noble poetry . It is strong j oy to read it when the wounds of the

spirit smart, It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only

ashes be .

o It is strong j y to read it, and to make it is a thing That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any n pride o earth . For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his i foot on a k ng, And it shakes the walls o f his little soul with the ’ echo of God s mirth . [ 1 3 4 ] THE PROU D POET

There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be

bhud, Yeta 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 o f sight . And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day

long,

He had no wealth, he had no friends , he had no

j oy at all,

Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, And the world finds in them the magic wine that

hi s broken heart let fall .

“ A nd 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 . ’ e a And the title of po t s noble thing, worth living

and dying for, Though all the devils on earth and in Hell Spit t a me their disdain .

r u r It is stern work, it is pe ilo s work, to thrust you hand in the sun POEMS AT HOME

And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men

e But Prometheus , torn by the claws and beaks whos

task is never done, Would be tortured another eterni ty to go stealing ” fire again .

[ 13 3]

POEMS AT HOME

FA T AR D H H G R PK N S . J ER E O I S , .

i HY d dst thou carve thy speech laboriously, And match and blend thy words with curious art ?

F or Song, one saith , is but a human heart i Speak ng aloud, undisciplined and free .

W ho hee ! Nay, God be praised, fixed thy task for t

set Austere, ecstatic craftsman , apart f ’ From all who tra fic 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 0 i ! bleed ng feet, with peace and glory shod 0 ! happy moth , that flew into the Sun

[ 13 8] GA TES AND DOORS

GA TES AND DOORS

(For Richardson Little Wright)

H ERE was a gentle hostler ( And blessed 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

hi s A glory round head .

S 0 let the gate swing open

H owever or the ard po y , L est weary people visi t you A nd find their passage barred; U nki tch the door at midnight ’ A nd let your lantern s glow ’ S hine ou t to guide the traveller s h n To you across t e s ow.

There was a courteous hostler ( He is in Heaven to -night) ’ He held O ur Lady s bridle And helped her to alight ; [ 1 39] POEMS AT HOME

He Spread clean straw before her

she Whereon might lie down, And Jesus Christ has given him

An everlasting crown .

U nlock the door this evening

A nd let ou r ate swin wide y g g , L et all who ask for shelter

om s edil nsi e C e pe y i d . W hat if your yard be narrow? W hat if you r hous e be small? There is a Gu est i s coming

ill lori it all W g fy .

There was a j oyous hostler W ho knelt on Christmas morn Beside the radiant manger

Wherein his Lord was born .

was of His heart full laughter, H is soul was full o f bliss

’ on When Jesus , His Mother s lap ,

Gave him His hand to kiss .

U nbar you r heart this evening

A nd kee no stran er ou t p g ,

’ Take from your sou l s great portal

The bar er dou bt ri of . [ 1 401

POEMS AT HOME

THE ROB E OF CH RIS T (For Cecil Chesterton)

T the foot of the Cross on Calvary di sat Three sol ers and diced, And one of them was the Devil

And he won the Robe of Christ .

When the Devil comes in his proper form m l To the cha ber where I dwel , I know him and make the Sign of the Cross i Wh ch 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

or or From love joy wine .

m And when he comes like a wo an, i With lovely, sm ling eyes , Black dreams float over his golden head

o f Like a swarm carrion flies .

Now many a million tortured souls In his red halls there be W hy does he spend his subtle craft In hunting after me ? [ 1 42] THE ROB E OF CHRI S T

Kings , queens and crested warriors h i W ose memory rings through t me,

his These are prey, and what to him

Is this poor man of rhyme ,

That he, with such laborious skill,

r61e rOl Should change from to e, Should daily act so many a part To get my little soul?

Oh , he can be the forest,

sun And he can be the ,

r o f O a buttercup , or an hour rest

When the weary day is done . l I saw him through a thousand vei s, And has not this sufficed ?

on Now, must I look the Devil robed In the radiant Robe of Christ ?

c sad i He comes , and his fa e is and m ld, With thorns his head is crowned ; h hi s T ere are great bleeding wounds in feet ,

And in each hand a wound . l How can I tel , who am a fool, If this be Christ or no ? Those bleeding hands outstretched to me ! Those eyes that love me so ! [ 143 ] POEMS AT HOME

I see the Robe—I look—I hope — I fear but there i s one Who will dir ect my troubled mind ; ’ n Christ s Mother k ows her Son .

0 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 j oin the game

And win the Robe of Christ .

[ 1 44]

POEMS AT HOME

THE ANNU NCI A TI ON

(For Helen Parry Eden)

of AIL Mary , full grace, the Angel saith .

Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed

She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,

H im o Her mortal flesh bears W h conquers death . Now in the dust her spirit grov elleth ;

Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,

TOO fair a herald j oy too high proclaimed, l ’ And human ips have trembled in God s breath .

-M O Mother aid, thou art ashamed to cover i With thy white self, whereon no sta n can be,

h Go d W ho a T y , c me from Heaven to be thy Lover, in Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell

thee .

About thy head celestial legions hover, t Chanting the praise of thy humili y .

[ 1 46] ROSES

RO SES

(For Katherine Bregy) I WE NT to gather roses and twine them in a

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 f or

the healing of the land .

Now of this fair and awful King there is this marv el

told, That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead

one o f of gold . a e Where there are thorns are roses , and I saw lin

of red,

A little wreath of roses around His radiant head . [ 1 47] POEMS AT HOME

A r S a red ose is His cred Heart, a white rose is His

face, And His breath has turned the barren world to a

rich and flowery place .

the H is He is Rose of Sharon, gardener am I , And I shall drink H is fragrance in Heaven when

I di e .

[ 1 48]

POEMS AT HOME

MULTIPLICATION

8 M. E . ( For . )

I v TAKE my leave, with sorrow, of Him lo e so well ; I look my last upon His small and radiant prison cell ; O happy lamp ! to serv e Him with never ceasing light ! 0 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 i with lonely pa n . 0 0 ! King, O Friend, Lover What sorer grief can be In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee ?

But from my window as I sp eed across the sleeping land I see the towns and villages wherein His houses

stand . Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the

And I know that there my Lov er dwells in His

sacramental might . [ 1 50] MU LTIPL ICA TION

an i Dominions kneel before Him, d. Powers k ss

H is feet, Net for me He keeps His weary watch in the t ur moil of the street n n The Ki g of Ki gs awaits me , wherever I may go, O who am I that He should deign to love and serv e me so ?

[ 1 51 ] POEMS AT HOME

THAN KSGIVING

(For John Bunker)

in HE roar of the world is my ears . Thank God for the roar of the world ! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hu rled !

Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, An d the sting o f His chastening rod !

o li Thank God f r the stress and the pain of fe,

God God ! And Oh , thank for

POEMS AT HOME

THE BIG TOP HE 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 off take my hat to the acrobat with his delicate,

strong art, And the motley mirth o f 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 .

S ir 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 . THE B IG TOP

Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet n and a k ife, And another shall dance on a big white horse that n canters round a ri g, By another ’ s hand shall colours stand in similitude o f life ; A nd the hearts o f the three shall be moved by one

mysterious high thing .

For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter

are the same .

’ o ne one They know hope , fear, one pride, one

o ne sorrow and mirth , And they take delight in the endless fight for the ’ fickle world s acclaim ; F or they worship art above the clouds and serve

on her the earth .

But you , who can build of the stubborn rock no

o f li form love ness , Who can never mingle the radi ant hues to make

a wonder live, Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhyt hmic dress What kind of a counterpart of you does the three ring circus give ? [ 1 55] POEMS AT HOME — 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 ,

one wi And each shows his grief for pay, th a sort

o f pride therein .

You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look ; You sing the news o f your ruined hOpe and want the world to hear ; Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a

printed book .

0 r , poet of the broken heart, salute you brothers here

[ 1 56]

POEMS AT HOME

QU EEN ELIZABETH SPEA KS

Y hands were stained with blood, my heart

was proud and cold, My soul i s black with shame but I gave

Shakespeare gold .

ae of So after ons flame , I may, by grace of God, ’ Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare s feet have

trod .

[ 1 58] IN MEMORY OF RU PERT BROOKE

IN MEMORY OF RU PERT BROOKE

N se a alien earth , across a troubled ,

so His body lies that was fair and young .

hi s His mouth is stopped , with half songs unsung ;

i s His arm still, that struck to make men free . But let no cloud of lamentation be ’ r n Where, on a warrior s grave, a ly e is hu g .

We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,

r We keep the vision of his chival y .

S ’ n o Israel s joy, the loveliest of ki gs ,

Smote now his harp , and now the hostile horde . To -day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms a soldi er made to praise his Lord ; And n David rests beneath Eternal wi gs ,

Song on his lips , and in his hand a sword .

[ 1 59] P OEMS AT HOME

THE NEW SCHOOL

( For My Mother )

HE halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem i like hol day, And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm o f the dreaming street Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the

doves away .

on t The dust is book and on emp y 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 W A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that ar

has made .

F or 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, [ 1 601

POEMS AT HOME

They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame

sanctifies that , A flam e that they took with strong young hands -fires from the altar of God .

[ 1 62] EA S TER WEEK

EA S TER WEEK

( In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

“ ’ R manti c I reland s dead and ne ( o go , ’ ’ I t s with O L ear in the ra e y g v .

WI LL IA M U TLER EA B Y TS .

OMA NTI C ’ Ireland s dead and gone, ’ ’ O L ear It s with y in the grave .

Then, Yeats , what gave that Easter dawn A hue so radiantly brave ?

o f There was a rain blood that day,

Red rain in gay blue April weather . It blessed the earth till it gave birth

To o f r valour thick as blooms heathe .

Romantic Ireland never di es ! ’ O L e ar y lies in fertile ground , A nd 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 ? [ 1 63 ] POEMS AT HOME

The young Republic ’s banners smile

F or m 0 0 many a ile where tr ps convene . ’ O Connell Street is loudly sweet

t o f With s rains Wearing of the Green .

The soil o f 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 ’ S arsfield s And face is glad and fierce . See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padr aic Pearse !

There is no rope can strangle song

And not f or long death takes his toll . No prison bars can dim the stars

Nor quicklime eat the living soul .

o l Romantic Ireland is n t o d .

F or years untold her youth will shine .

a t on Her he r is fed Heavenly bread,

r n The blood of ma tyrs is her wi e .

[ 1 64]

POEMS AT HOME

H is For God thou hast known fear, when from side i i Men wandered, seek ng alien shr nes 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 ; A nd in thy panes o f gold and scarlet glass

t su n .The se ting sees thousandfold his face ;

o Sorrow and j y, in stately silence pass

Across thy walls , the shadow and the light

Around thy lofty pillars , tapers white n i Illumi ate, with del cate sharp flames ,

o f The brows saints with venerable names, ll And in the night erect a fiery wa . 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

of With blare trumpets , mighty armies come .

Suddenly, each knows fear ;

s r Swift rumours pa s , that every one must hea , 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 . [ 1 66] THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIM S

r They are turned back, and d iven to Champagne .

so And now, as to many weary men,

The glorious temple gives them welcome, when

It meets them at the bottom of the plain .

i At once , they set the r cannon in its way .

nor There is no gable now, wall f That does not su fer, night and day,

A s l shot and shell in crushing torrents fal . 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 ,

of The crypts , 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 [ 1 67] POEMS AT HOME

S of trong walls faith , most basely overthrown ! l n The craw i g flames , like adders glistening

o f Ate the white fabric this lovely thing .

it s Now from soul arose a piteous moan,

. .The soul that always loved the just and fair

woe Granite and marble loud their confessed, r The silve monstrances that Popes had blessed , The chalices and lam ps and crosiers rare Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath ; w The horror every here did range and swell,

u l The guardian Saints into this f rnace fel ,

t a Their bit er tears and scre ms were stilled in death .

i s i Around the flames armed hosts are sk rmi h ng, The burning sun reflects the lurid scene ;

f or The German army, fighting its life, Rallies its torn and terrified left wing ;

as h And, they near t is place The imperial eagles see i Before them in their fl ght,

Here, in the solemn night,

ol The d cathedral, to the years to be n Showi g, with wounded arms , their own disgrace .

POEMS AT HOME

THE WH I TE SHIPS AND THE RED

( F or Alden March )

ITH drooping sail and pennant

That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters

Beside a sunless beach . Their mighty masts and funnels

e Ar white as driven snow, And with a pallid radiance w Their ghostly bulwarks glo .

Here is aD Spani sh galleon

was That once with gold 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 ’ i Death s livid , dreadful wh te .

White as the ice that clove her

o That unf rgotten day, Among her pallid sisters

T t nic The grim i a lay . [ 1 701 THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED

A nd 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 stem 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, li ! But red, like ving 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

A nd 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 Ar rayed in living red ? [ 171] POEMS AT HOME

We are the ships of sorrow

Who spend the weary night,

o f Until the dawn Judgment Day, ” Obscure and still and white .

Nay, said the scarlet visitor, “ sea Though I sink through the , A ruined thing that was a ship ,

I sink not as di d ye . F or ye met with your destiny

or By storm rock or fight , So through the lagging centuries

o f Ye wear your robes white .

But never crashing iceberg

Nor o f honest shot 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,

r The child en played about my decks, The women sang—and then [ 1 72 ]

POEMS AT HOME

THE TWELVE -FORTY-FIVE

( For Edward J . Wheeler )

I TH I N the Jersey City shed

The engine coughs and shakes its head .

of The smoke, a plume red and white,

o f ni Waves madly in the face ght . A nd now the grave incurious stars

on r Gleam the groaning hurrying ca s . Against the kind and awful reign

k our Of dar ness , this angry train,

A noisy little rebel, pouts

I ts b riefw de fiance , flames and shouts

on And passes , and leaves no trace . e For darkn ss holds its ancient place , i Serene and absolute , the k ng

Unchanged, of every living thing . The houses li e obscure and still

In Rutherford and Carlton Hill . Our lam ps intensify the dark

u Of sl mbering Passaic Park . An d quiet holds the weary feet h That daily tramp t rough Prospect Street . What though we clang and clank and roar Through all Passaic ’s streets ? No door [ 1 74] THE TWELVE -FORTY-FIVE

see Will open , not an eye will

W ho this loud vagabond may be . i Upon my cr mson 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 ’ of They take God s gracious gift night.

The stars are watchful over them . On Clifton as on Bethlehem

The angels , leaning down the sky,

s A n Shed peace and gentle dream . d I

I ride , I blasphemously ride

r Through all the silent count yside . ’ ’ 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 .

’ F or what tremendous errand s sake Are we so blatantly awake ? What precious secret is our freight ? What king must be abroad so late ? [ 1 75] P OEM S AT HOME

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,

in on The train , with heal g its wings . “ ” Now ! Hawthorne the conductor cries .

My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes . He hurries yawni ng through the car

And steps out where the houses are . This i s the reason o f our quest ! Not wantonly we break the rest

nor Of town and village, do we i ’ Lightly profane n ght s sanctity .

s What Love commands the train fulfill , A nd beautiful upon the hills

A r e ou r of l these feet burnished stee . Subtly and certainly I feel That Glen Rock welcomes us to her And silent Ridgewood seems to stir

she And smile, because knows the train h h i Has broug t her c ildren back aga n . — We carry people home and so ’ e o God spe ds us , wheresoe er we g . [ 173]

POEMS AT HOME

PENNIE S

FEW long-hoarded pennies in his Behold him stand ; ni A kilted Hedo st, perplexed and sad .

The j oy that once he had,

i is The first del ght of ownership fled .

He bows his little head . Ah , cruel Time, to kill That splendid thrill !

Then in his tear - dimmed eyes

New lights arise .

n r He drops his treasured pe nies on the g ound, They roll and bound

And scattered, rest . Now with what zest He runs to find his errant wealth again !

So unto men

God Doth , 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 ,

our w v hid All they, lovers, hom His Lo e hath . { 1 78] PENNIE S

e r e Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peac on st if , n A d gain on loss . What is the key to Everlasting Life ?

- A blood stained Cross .

[ 1 79] POEMS AT HOME

TREE S

M l ( For rs . Henry Mil s Alden)

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 ;

Go d A tree that looks at all day, And li fts her leafy arms to pray ;

A tree that may in Summer wear A nest o f robins in her hair ;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain ;

Who intimately lives with rain .

a o me Poems are m de by f ols like , nl But o y God can make a tree .

[ 1 80]

POEMS AT HOME

’ ’ ’ 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 fli es where God s battles

are,

Flashes past the face of God , and is a star .

[ 1 82] OLD POETS

OLD POETS

(For Robert Cortes Holliday)

F I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree , No grove of Mpu dent saplings

Would make a home for me .

’ old I d go where the oaks gather,

Serene and good and strong, And they would not sigh and tremble

And vex me with a song .

The pleasantest sort o f poet ’ Is the poet who s old and wise , With an old white beard and wrinkles

hi s ol About kind d eyes .

For these young fli ppertigibb ets A -rhyming their hours away They won’t be still like honest men A n d listen to what you say . The young poet screams forever About hi s sex and his soul ;

old his But the man listens , and smokes

And polishes its bowl . [1 83 ] POEM S AT HOME

There should be a club for poets t Who have come to seven y year . They should sit in a great hall drinking

Red wine and golden beer .

f of n They would shu fle in an eveni g,

one Each 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 so ngs that must be sung .

’ But the old man knows that he s in his chair

’ A n in d that God s on His throne the sky. So he sits by the fir e in comfort

And he lets the world spin by .

[1 34]

POEMS AT HOME

Yet stars in greater numbers shine,

V And iolets in millions grow, And they in many a golden line

n as r Are su g, eve y child must know.

Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,

r His wrinkled, sh ewd, pathetic face,

0 all His sh p , and he sells and buys

A r e desperately commonplace .

i s Well, it true he has no sword

To dangle at his booted knees .

o f He leans across a slab board , A nd l draws his knife and s ices cheese .

r He never heard of chival y, He longs for no heroic times ;

s o f He think pickles , olives , tea, di And dollars , nickels, cents and mes .

His world has narrow walls , it seems ; By counters is his soul confined ; s His wares are all his hopes and dream ,

They are the fabric of his mind . [ 1 86] DELICATESSEN — 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

A nd t o turned love his eager voice . Like any cavalier of France

e He wooed the maiden of his choic .

And now deep in his weary heart

A r e sacred flames that whitely burn . ’ He has o f Heaven s grace a part

i s ur . Who loves , who beloved in t n

’ And when the long day s work is done, ( How slow the leaden minutes ran ! )

Home, with his wife and little son, t ! He is no hucks er, but a man

A nd there are those who grasp his hand,

Who drink with him and wish him well. 0 in no drear and lonely land

Shall he who honours friendship dwell . [ 1 87] POEMS AT HOME

his And in little shop , who knows What bitter games of war are played ?

on Why, daily each corner grows

o rob A f e to him of his trade .

’ fir eside s He fights , and for his sake ; He fights for clothing and for bread The lances o f 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 A n u es d by such blows his tri mph com .

What if no tw pet sounds to call ? H i s armed legions t o his side What if to no ancestral hall ’ He comes in all a Victor s pride ?

The scene shall never fit the deed . as Grotesquely wonders come to p s . The fool shall mount an Arab steed

a s A nd Jesus ride upon an s . [ 1 88]

POEMS AT HOME

SERVANT GIRL AND GROCER ’ S BOY

’ : ! ER lips remark was Oh , you kid Her soul spoke thus ( I know it did)

i o f O k ng of realms endless joy, M ’ y own, my golden grocer s boy,

I am a princess forced to dwell n i Withi a lonely k tchen cell,

While you go dashing through the land

i on With lovel ness every hand .

0 Your whistle strikes my eager ears

n s Like music of the choiri g sphere .

The mighty earth grows faint and reels

Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.

nl How kee y, perilously sweet To cling upon that swaying seat !

H o w happy she who by your side May share the splendours of that ride !

Ah , if you will not take my hand

hear ofl a And me across the l nd, [ 1 90] S ERVANT GIRL AND GROCER ’ S BOY

l Then, travel er from Arcady,

Remain awhile and comfort me .

What other maiden can you find ” So young and delicate and kind ?

’ : kid ! Her lips remark was Oh , you n Her soul spoke thus ( I k ow it di d) .

[ 1 91 ] POEMS AT HOME

WEALTH

( F or Aline)

M l RO what old bal ad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth ? W as it from Chaucer ’ s singing book you came ? ’ Or di d W atteau s small brushes give you birth ?

Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand

a n Could Raph el or Leo ardo trace . Nor could the poets know in Fairyland

n c The changi g wonder of your lyri fac e .

I s would possess a host of lovely thing ,

I o b e But am po r and such joys may not . S o God who lifts the poor and humbles kings me Sent loveliness itself to dwell with .

[ 1 92]

POEMS AT HOME

How like his o ld unselfish way To leave those halls of splendi d mirth And comfort those condemned to stay U pon the dull and sombre earth .

Some people ask : What cruel chance ’ ” Made Martin s life so sad a story ?

? W h c Martin y, he exhaled roman e ,

o f And wore an overcoat glory .

o f li A fleck sun ght in the street,

A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet

For this receptive ancient child . 0

’ Because it was old Martin s lot

To be, not make, a decoration , S hall we then scorn him , having not His genius o f appreciation ? Rich j oy and love he got and gave ; His heart was merry as his dress ; Pile laurel wr eaths upon his grave

was ! Who did not gain, but , success

[ 1 94] THE APARTMENT HOUSE

THE APARTMENT HOUSE

EVERE against the pleasant arc of sky

The great stone box is cruelly displayed .

its The street becomes more dreary from shade,

And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die . n Here sullen convicts in their chai s might lie,

r Or slaves toil dumbly at some drea y 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

am r Gle from a window far above the st eet .

of This is a house 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 !

[195] POEMS AT HOME

AS WINDS THAT BLOW AGAINST A STAR

( For Aline )

OW by what whim o f wanton chance D o radiant eyes know sombre days ? And feet that shod in light should dance Walk weary and laborious ways ?

s But ray from Heaven, white and whole, May penetrate the gloom of earth ;

And tears but nourish, in your soul,

r o f The glo y celestial mirth .

of The darts toil and sorrow, sent n Agai st your peaceful beauty, are As foolish and as impotent

ds r As win that blow against a sta .

[ 1 96]

POEMS AT HOME

TO A YOUNG POET WHO KILLED HIMSELF

HEN 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 . ” ou Lo, I have lived and loved, y said, “ A nd un s g to fools too dull to hear me . Now for a cool and grassy bed

r With violets in blossom nea me .

r s e Well, e t is good for weary f et, Although they ran f or no great prize ; An d violets are very sweet,

Although their roots are in your eyes . But har k t o what the earthworms say Who share with you your muddy haven

ou— The fight was you ran away .

are You a coward and a craven .

The rug is ruined where you bled It was a dirty way to di e ! To put a bullet through your head And make a silly woman cry! [ 1 98] TO A YOUNG POET

You could not vex the merry stars

ou or vi . Nor make them heed y , dead li ng 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

n o f And quick and fresh i stead rotten . And when you think o f 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 ?”

[1 99] POEMS AT HOME

MEMORIAL DAY

“ ” Dulce et decorum est

h HE bugle echoes s rill and sweet,

o f s - But not war it ings to day . The road is rhythmi c with the feet

- at - r Of men a ms who come to pray . The roses blossom white and red On tombs where weary soldi ers lie ; Flags wave above the honoured dead

t sk And mar ial music cleaves the y.

- n Above their wreath strewn graves we k eel,

They kept the faith and fought the fight . Through flying lead and crimson steel

o They plunged f r Freedom and the Right .

r May we, their grateful child en , learn

sod Their strength , who lie beneath this , Who went through fire and death to earn

o At last the accolade of G d .

In shining rank on rank arrayed

of They march, the legions the Lord ;

He is their Captain unafraid, The Prince of Peace Who brought a

sword . [200]

POEMS AT HOME

VISION

(For Aline)

R ll u s was u OME , they te , blind and co ld not see the beautiful faces Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of

am his dre , Yet did he seem Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their st holie places .

o f I have no vision gods , not of

arrows laden, Jupiter thundering death or of

breasted queen, Yet have I seen All of the j oy o f the world in the innocent

a maiden .

12021 TO CERTAIN POET S

TO CERTAIN POET S

’ OW i s the rhymer s honest trade

f or n A thing scor ful laughter made .

’ ’ The merchant s sneer, the clerk s disdain,

o f our These are the burden pain .

o f ou ll Because y did this befa ,

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 !

- i A heavy handed blow, I th nk, i ink Would make your ve ns drip scented .

You strut and smirk your little while l ! So mi dly, delicately vile

’ Your tiny voices mock God s wrath, You snails that crawl along His path !

God or to Why, what has man do li ? With wet, amorphous things ke you [203 ] POEMS AT HOME

This thing alone you have achieved

i s Because of you, it believed

That all who earn their bread by rhyme

Ar e di li like yourselves , exu ng s me .

Oh , cease to write , for very shame, Ere all men spit upon our name !

n Take up your needles , drop your pe , ’ And leave the poet s craft to men !

[204]

POEMS AT HOME

! ST . ALE IS

Patron o f Beggars

E 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,

A nd our so d shrine is a bank of , ’ But still we share St . Alexis care,

o d The Vagabond of G .

0 They gave him a home in purple Rome

And a princess for his bride, But he rowed away on his weddi ng day ’ Down the Tiber s rushing tide . A nd he came to land on the Asian strand Where the heathen people dwell ; As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed

A nd he saved their souls from hell .

Bowed with years and pain he came back again ’ li a To his father s dwel ng pl ce .

see t be .There was none to who this ramp might ,

k not For they new his bearded face . [ 20 6] ! ST . ALE I S

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 ” W ho o f our sin will cleanse us ,

Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain,

F or 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 . i Our altar l ght is a buttercup bright,

o f sod And our shrine is a bank , ’ But still we share St . Alexis care, The Vagabond of God !

( 2073 P OEMS AT HOME

FOLLY

x A . K. ( For . )

HAT di stant mountains thrill and glow ’ Beneath our Lady Folly s tread ?

W hy has she left us , wise in woe, m ? Shrewd, practical, unco forted

t or n We canno love or dream si g,

We are too cynical to pray, There is no j oy in anythi ng l Since Lady Fo ly went away .

M kn any a ight and gentle maid, i Whose glory sh nes from years gone by, Through ignorance was unafraid

as n di e And a fool k ew how to . S aint Folly rode beside Jehanne

A nd of broke the ranks Hell with her, And Folly’ s smile shone brightly on ’ Christ s plaything, Brother Juniper .

Our minds are tr oubled and defiled

By study in a weary school . 0 for the folly of the child ! The ready courage of the fool !

POEMS AT HOME

MADNE S S

( F or S ara Teasdale )

HE lonely farm, the crowded street ,

The palace and the slum, Give welcome to my silent feet

As , bearing gifts , I come .

n Last ight 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 sk sea land, nor y, nor ,

’ Nor love s artillery o f tears

me Can keep mine own from .

S n air erene, unchangi g, ever f , I smile with secret mirth And in a net of mine own hair

I swing the captive earth . [ 2 1 0] POETS

POETS

AIN is the chiming of forgott en bells

That the wind sways above a ruined shrine . Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells i Hunger that craves mmortal Bread and Wine .

Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath

o not ro Out of ur lips that have kissed the d .

They shall not live who have not tasted death . nl m They o y sing who are struck du b by God . POEM S AT HOME

CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

0 b e longer of Him it said , “ He hath no place to lay His head .

In every land a constant lamp

a Flames by His small and mighty c mp .

There is no strange and di stant place

That is not gladdened by His face .

A nd ev ary nation kneels to hail h The Splendour shining t rough Its veil .

n Cloistered beside the shouti g street,

ls Silent, He cal me to His feet .

Imprisoned for His love of me,

He makes my spirit greatly free .

An d through my lips that uttered i The K ng of Glory enters in .

[2 1 2]

POEMS AT HOME

a n a o di N y, si ce ye loved ye c nn t e .

s Above the stars is set your ne t . ’ Through Heaven s fields ye sing and fly

of A nd in the trees Heaven rest . And little children in their dreaming Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming

A nd r r smile, by you clea music blest . THE FOURTH SHEPHERD

THE FOURTH SHEPHERD

(For Thomas Walsh) I

N nights like this the huddled sheep

A r e like white clouds upon the grass,

And merry herdsmen guard their sleep ,

And chat and watch the big stars pass .

It i s a pleasant thing to lie Upon the meadow on the hill With kindly fellowship near by l Of sheep and men of gentle wi l . I lean upon my broken crook And dream of sheep and grass and men 0 shameful eyes that cannot look On any honest thing again ! On bloody feet I clambered down

sin And fled the wages of my , i I am the leav ngs of the town, mn And meanly serve its meanest .

r in I t amp the courtyard stones grief, her While sleep takes man and beast to . “ ” And every cloud is calling Thief ! “ A nd ev ery star calls Murderer ! [21 5] POEMS AT HOME

o f The hand God is sure and strong, Nor shall a man forever flee

m o f The bitter punish ent wrong . The wrath of Go d is over me ! With ashen bread and wine of tears

Shall I be solaced in my pain . I wear through black and endless years n Upon my brow the mark of Cai .

o ld Poor vagabond, so and mild, Will they not keep him for a night ?

And She , a woman great with child,

So frail and pitiful and white .

l Good peop e , since the tavern door

I s . shut to you , come here instead

See , I have cleansed my stable floor

And piled fresh hay to make a bed .

i Here is some m lk and oaten cake .

Lie down and sleep and rest you fair,

Nor 0 t o fear, simple folk , take

o f The bounty of a child care . On nights like this the huddled sheep

saw ni so I never a ght fair .

sk i s how ! How huge the y , and deep And how the planets flash and glare ! [2 1 6]

EASTER

HE air is like a butterfly

With frail blue wings . The happy earth looks at the sky

And sings . MOUNT H OU VE NKOPF

MOUNT HOUVENKOPF

ERE NE 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 . i ’ He does not heed the angry l ghtning s wound,

r n l The agi g b izzard is his harmless guest, And human life is but a p assing jest him S r To who sees Time pin the years a ound .

ul But fragile so s , in skyey reaches find - v High vantage points and iew him from afar . mi How low he seems to the ascended nd, How brief he seems where all things endless are ;

This little playmate of the mighty wind, i Th s young companion of an ancient star .

[2 19] POEM S AT HOME

THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT

H E NE VE R I walk to S uffern along the Erie track I go by a poor o ld farmh ouse with its shingles

broken and black .

’ I suppose I ve passed it a hundred times , but I al ways stop f or a minute

r And look at the house, the t agic house, the house

with nobody in it .

I a n r never have seen a h u ted house, but I hea there are such things ; hbld That they the talk of spirits , their mirth and

sorrowings . n ’ I k ow this house isn t haunted, and I wish it were, I do ; ’ l so For it wou dn t be lonely if it had a ghost or two .

’ This house on the road to S u fl ern needs a dozen

of panes glass ,

an And somebody ought to weed the walk d take a.

o sc ythe t the grass .

s v It need new paint and shingles , and the ines should be trimmed and ti ed ; But what it needs the most of all is some people li v

[ 220 ]

POEMS AT HOME

[Yet it hurt s me to look at the

the shutters fallen apart , ’ F or I can t help thinking the poo r old house is a

house with a broken heart .

[222] DAVE LILLY

DAVE LILLY

’ HERE S a brook o n the side o f Greylock that

o f used to be full trout, ’ But there s nothing there now but minnows ; they

a i o t s y it s all fished u . I fished there many a Summ er day some twenty

years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen

or so .

was h There a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on t e

North Adams road,

And he spent all his time fishing, while his neigh

bors reaped and sowed .

r He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshi e hills,

I think . ’ ’ And when he didn t go fishing he d sit in the tavern

and drink .

a Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody c res very much ; They have no u se in Greylock for drunkards and and loafers such . [ 223 1 POEMS AT HOME

l But I always liked Dave Li ly, he was pleasant as you could wish ; i - - He was sh ftless and good for nothing, but he cer h t ainly could fis .

r I .The othe night 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

And I heard it ripple and whi sper in the still of the

Summer night .

’ A‘ nd after I d been there a mi nute it seemed to me I could feel

of The presence someone near me, and I heard the

hum of a reel . n And the water was chur ed and broken, and some thing 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

’ ’ There wasn t a sign of a fisherman ; there wasn t

a sign of a trout . [ 224]

POEMS AT HOME

ALARM CLOCKS

HEN Dawn strides out to wake a farm Across green fields and yellow hills of hay The little twittering birds laugh in his way

on And poise triumphant his shining arm . He bears a sword of flame but not to harm The wakened life that feels his quickening “ ” And barnyard voices shrilling It is day !

Take by his grace a new and alien charm .

li But in the city, ke a wounded thing

That limps to cover from the angry chase ,

- i He steals down streets where sickly arc lights s ng , And wanly mock his young and shameful face ; And tiny gongs with cruel fervour ring

In many a high and dr eary sleeping place .

[22 3] WAVERLEY

WAVERLEY

1 81 41-1 9 1 44

HEN on a novel ’ s newly printed page

of sin We find a maudlin eulogy ,

of in And read ways that harlots wander , And o f 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 o f honour habited The laureled wizard of the North appears ! ’ ho W 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 R ’ ! ides Waverley, triumphant o er the years

[227]

IN A BOOK - SHOP

LL day I serve among the volumes telling Old tales o f love and war and high romance ;

Go d Good company, 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

on n The Pilgrim his darksome journey fari g, ’ And Shakespeare s heroes , great in love and rage .

t oo— ce i Fair ladies , here Beatri sm ling Through hell leads Dante to the happy stars ; i And Heloise , the cruel guards beguil ng,

o f With Abelard makes mock convent bar s .

Yet when night comes I leave these folks with pleasure ’ To open Love s great summer-scented tome — Within whose pages precious beyond measure M y own White Flower Lady hath her home . [23 1 ] EAR LY POEMS

SLENDER YOUR HANDS

LENDER your hands and soft white A s 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 o f all the year s in Is their lovelight lying .

[232]

EAR LY POEM S

WHITE BIRD OF LOVE

I TTL E of mm k white bird the su er s y,

sun Silver against the golden ,

the o f l Over green the hil s you fly,

You and the sweet, wild air are one .

Glorious sights are in that far place

R r i - eached by you da sy petal wing,

R - ose coloured meteors dive through space,

a St rs made of molten music sing .

ll Sti , though your quivering eager flight R ac n e hes the groves by Heaven tow , “ s l ! Where all the angel cry out, A ight

li o w ! Stop , ttle bird, c me do n, come down

r s Ca ele s you speed over fields of stars , Darting through Heaven swift and free ; Nothing your arrowy p assage 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 .

s Blo soming dreams all the branches bear, ’ f or r a - r Fit my silver d e m bird s est . [23 4] WHITE BIRD OF LOVE

i ou h n Here, s nce they love y , the young stars s i e,

Through the white petals come their beams .

t - o f Li tle white love laden bird mine ,

n ou d Let them shi e on y through my reams .

[235] EARLY POEM S

TRAN SF I GU RA TI O N

l F it shou d be my task, I being God,

From whirling atoms to evolve your mate, With hands omnipotent I should create

- t i A great souled hero, with the s arl ght 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 st ate

And to r kneel kiss the ground whereon you t od .

k t l But God, who li e a li tle chi d is wise,

m r Made me, a com on thing of ea thly 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

as — r la I w transformed your heart in my hea t y.

[ 23 6]

EARLY POEMS

her i To no rhymes will I ind te,

For her no garlands will I twine , Though she be made o f flowers

No lady is so fair as mine .

’ L ENv or

P of rince Eros , Lord lovely might

Who on Olympus dost recline, Do I not tell the truth aright ? i No lady is so fair as m ne .

[23 3] FOR A BIRTHDAY

FOR A BIRTHDAY

PRIL with her violets ,

May and June with roses ,

Young July with all her flowers , crimson,

and white ,

Each in place her tribute sets ,

Each her wreath composes , Making glad the roadway f or the Lady i Del ght .

i B rds with many colours gay,

Through the branches flitting,

t o Sing, greet my Lady Love , a lusty welcome

song .

Even bees make holiday,

Hive and honey quitting, Tremulous and jubilant they j oin the eager

throng .

Now the road is flower -paved Timi d fawns are peering ’ From their pleasant vantage in the roadside s

leafy green . [239] EARLY POEM S

l nl Al the world in su ight laved, Knows the hour is nearing That shall bring the golden presence

- well loved Queen .

Hark ! at last the silver trill Of a lute is sounding

- Happy August, purple clad,

her train . Sudden sweet the branches fill ; Every heart is bounding ;

u August comes , the kindly n rse who is to reign !

And v now, with proud and aliant 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 thr ough 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 ! [240]

FOR A BIRTHDAY

s We of the meadows , the rocks and the hill ,

Dwellers in oceans and rivers and rills ,

Beasts of the forests and birds of the air,

Linnet and butterfly, lion and bear, ’ dafl odill - Daisy and , spruce tree and fir ,

our ! .Yield to Queen and do homage to her Hail ! Hail ! Hail ! we welcome thy royal sway ! ! ! ! 0 ! Hail Hail Hail Queen, on this festal day

k So all the world neels down to you, And all things are your own ; Now let a hum ble rhymer sue

Before your crystal throne .

u - Fair Queen , at yo r rose petal feet Bid me to live and die !

Not all your world of lovers , Sweet,

Can love so much as I .

E2 41 ] EARLY POEM S

WAYFAR ERS

ND E RNE A TH the orchard trees li es a

gypsy sleeping, Tattered cloak and swarthy face and shaggy moonlit hair ; One brown hand his crazy fiddle in its grasp is keep in g, Through the Land of Dreams he st rolls and sings

his love songs there .

Up above the apple blossoms where the stars are n shi ing, Free and careless wandering among the clouds

he goes , S inging of his lady- love and for her pleasure twin ing

o f Wreaths Heaven flowers , violet and golden

rose .

find his b e In his sleep he stirs, and wakes to love

side him, Pours his load of Dreamland blooms before her

e silver f et, {2421

EARLY POEMS

PRINCES S BALLAD E

r - EVER a ho n sounds in Sherwood to night, ’ Friar Tuck s drinking Olympian ale, ’ a Little John s w ndered away from our sight, ’ Robin Hood s bow hangs unused on its nail . Even the moon has grown weary and pale ’ S f or ick the glint of Maid Marian s hair,

‘ i s o on But there one j y mountain and dale,

r ! Fairies abound all the time, eve ywhere

a sacredest Saints have ttacked them with might, They could not shatter their gossamer mail ;

’ Steam - driven engines can never afl right

- Fairies who dance in their spark sprinkled trail .

sad l Still for a warning the Banshees wai , Still are the Leprechauns ready to bear Purses of gold to their captors for bail ;

r ! Fairies abound all the time, eve ywhere

i Oberon, k ng of the realms of delight, i May your domain over us never fa l .

M - ab , as a rainbow hued butterfly bright,

a e Yours is the glory that g cannot stale . [244] PRINCES S BALLAD E

le When we are planted down under the sha ,

r - ff Fai y folk, drop a few da odils there, Comfort our souls in the Stygian vale ;

ri i r Fai es abound all the t me, eve ywhere .

h a W ite Flower Princess , though sophisters r il,

Let us be glad in faith that we share . None shall the Good People safely assail ; ! Fairies abound all the time, everywhere

[245] EARLY POEMS

LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY

I GH T is over ; through the clover globes of N crystal shine ; Birds are calling ; sunlight falli ng on the wet green

vine . l Little wings must folded lie , ittle lips be still k a l sun s r . While the is in the y, ove F iry Hil

Sleep , sleep , sleep ,

a r Baby with buttercup h i , Golden rays t In o the violet creep .

Dream, dream deep ; - s a r Dream of the night revel f i . Daylight stays ;

S ee . l p , little fairy child, sleep

R s a all a s e t in d ytime ; night is playtime, good f irie

know .

ff u r o . Unde sighing grasses lying, to sl mber go

i li he Night w ll come with stars agleam, lies in r n ha d, Calling you from Hills of Dream back to Fairy

land . [243]

EAR LY POEM S

A DEAD POET

R n AI Death , ki d Death , it was a gracious deed

a To t ke that weary vagrant to thy breast .

ee Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one n d R est .

[243] THE MAD FIDDLER

THE MAD FIDDLER

SLEEP beneath a bracken shee t

In sunlight or in rain ,

The road dust burns my naked feet, The sunr ays sear my brain ; ’ But children love my fiddle s sound

And if a lad be straying, His mother knows he may be found M ’ Where old ad Larry s playing .

0 fiddle , let us follow, follow, ’ see Till we my Eileen s face, Through the moonlight lik e a swallow

O ff he s flew to some far place .

? O , did you ever love a lass

one I loved a lass day, And she would lie upon the grass

And sing while I would play .

She was n a cruel, lovely thi g,

nor Nor heart soul have I , For Eileen took them that soft spring k When she flew to the s y. [249] EAR LY POEM S

S dl let u s o fid e, follow, follow, ’ ll ac Ti we see my Eileen s f e, Through the moonlight like a swallow

Off f ar she flew to some place .

[ 2 50]

EARLY P OEMS

SAID TH E ROSE

s O flower hath so fair a face as thi pale love of. mine ;

When he bends down to kiss my heart , my petals try to twine

his About lips to hold them fast . He is so very fair,

M sad a - y lover with the pale, f ce and forest fragrant

hair .

ink a I th it is pleasant place, this garden where I

0 grow, With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses

in a row .

r r the There is no toil nor worry he e, nor clatte of

street,

o And here each night my l ver comes, pale, sad and

very sweet .

He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white ;

his I am his love , only love, his Flower of Delight And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around My lover kneels the whole night through be si de me

on the ground . :[252 l SAID THE RO SE

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-swee t love-pain ?

There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love ,

h his He sings t is bitter, bitter song from 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 .

0 OE little bird, O jealous bird, fly and cease your chatter ! M y lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter ? In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals st eep ;

am ar e I his love , his only love, I have his he t to ke p. EAR LY POEM S

METAMORPHO SI S

E was an evil thing to see Of j oy his mouth was desolate

was His body a stunted tree,

H i e seyes were pools of lust and hat . Now silverly the linnet sings

his a On leaves that from temples st rt, And gay the yellow crocus springs

r r his ar F om the ich clod that was he t .

[254]

EARLY POEMS

THE CLOUDED SUN

( To A . S . )

o ld T i s not good for poets to grow , For they serve Death that loves and Lov e that kills ;

h s And Love and Death , enthroned above the ill , Call back their faithful servants to the fold

Before Age makes them passionless and cold .

Therefore it i s that no more sorry thing Can shut the sunli ght from the thirsty grass Than some grey head through which no longer p ass Wild dr eams more lively than the scent of Spring

To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing .

o f Far happier he, who, young and full pride

o f sun And radiant with the glory the ,

Leaves earth before his singing time is done .

All o f e wounds Time the graveyard flowers hid ,

His beauty lives , as fresh as when he died . Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells The world may see his young irnpetu ou s face nm di U arred by Time, with un minished grace ; W hile memory no piteous st ory tells

Of a b rren days, stale loves and broken spells . [256] THE CLOUDED SUN

l :

Brother and Master, we are wed with woe . ’ ea s Y , Grief funereal cloud it is that hovers

o f f About the head us , thy mourn ul lovers .

Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,

on o ur Dust our brows and at hearts the snow.

on e The London lights flare the chattering str et, Young men and maidens love and dance and die ;

to sk Wine flows , and the perfumes float up the y.

r Once thou couldst feel that this was ve y sweet, — Now thou art still mouth, hands and weary feet .

0 subtle mouth , whereon the Sphinx has placed

o f she The smile those kisses at their birth ,

f o r Sing once again, Spring has thrilled the earth . ’ Not art . e Nay, thou dumb even April s tast ffi Is sweet to thee in thy live co n cased .

There is no harsher tragedy than this

f eltest That thou , who as no man before

ur Scent , colour , taste and sound and didst outpo For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss

Shouldst be plunged down this cru el black abyss . [257] EAR LY PO EM S

and s e ee Brother Ma t r, if our love could fr

flam eb orne r a a Thy spi it from its le den ch in,

S l sad Thou hou dst rise up from this house of pain,

and a as a Be young f ir thou w st wont to be,

as ea And strong with j oy is the boundless s .

Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay

as st These roses , red lips that thou ha sung,

o w h and a b a T mingle it the green fragr nt y,

A nd a a cypress wreaths bove thy he d are hung. a We kneel awhile, then turn in te rs

[258]

EARLY POE MS

BEAUTY ’ S HAIR

of li GLEAM ght across the ni ght, I know that you are there ; The heavens show the lovely glow

Of your transcendent hair ,

Your luminous , miraculous ,

coloured hair . I ’ll take my silver j avelin A nd point it with a star, F or I have vowed to climb a cloud

o And reach to where y u are . ’ My javelin s barb shall pierce your hair it And pin to the sky, And I will run t o the island sun

ou Where captive y will lie,

l t o r And then I shal dare touch your hai ,

o of i T steal a tress your magic ha r, And bring t o the world a tress of hair

And win the world thereby .

Or shall I put on a green- sea cloak mm With sunset laces tri ed, 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 ; [260] BEAUTY ’ S HAIR

f or And all the sake of your merry hair,

ou r [Y whimsical, perilous , golden hair ,

Your lovely, terrible, golden hair,

or More sweet than love wine .

A twisted bit o f silver w Fell do n and bruised my face . What was it broke my broidered cloak And tore the sunset lace ? I must be clad in sorrow

ou so Because y are gay, And close my eyes if I would see

A whiter light than day .

So lofty is your golden hair,

li to I cannot c mb touch your hair, I must kn eel down to find your hair

Upon the trammed way . EARLY POEMS

THE WAY OF LOVE

(An Old Legend)

HEN darkness hovers over earth

And day gives place to night, Then lovers see the Milky Way

Gleam mystically bright, A nd calli ng it the Way o f Love

They hail it with delight .

' a She was lady wondrous fair,

A right brave lover he , And sooth they suffered grievous

And sorrowed mightily, F or they Were parted during life

sea By leagues of land and .

S . he died Then Death came to the man .

He met him joyfully, “ n ! And said, Thou A gel Death , well met

Quick, do thy will with me, That I may haste to greet my love ’ ” In Heaven s company . [262]

EARLY POE MS

a De r Love, she said, Oh, come to me !

ee I cannot s your face . 0 will not Lord Christ grant to us ” To cross this sea o f Space ? Then thrilled his heart with Love ’s own ’ He answered, by Love s grace .

e The world is wide, and Heaven is wid ,

to From me thee is far, Alas ! across Infini ty

No passageways there are . ’ e Sweetheart , I ll make my way to the , ’ ! ” I ll build it, star by star

Through all the curving vault of sky

H is lusty blows rang out . He smote the jewel- studded walls And with a mighty shout He to re 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 n His great task he bega , A nd toiled and laboured doughtily

- To work his God like plan . [264] THE WAY OF LOVE

He took the heavy beams of gold That round him he di d see ;

The beryl, j acinth , sardius ,

so That shone brilliantly, And no fair jewel would he spare

s So zealou ly worked he .

He stole the gorgeous tinted stuff s

Whereof are sunsets made,

hi s s And rude, grasping, eager hand On little stars he laid ; ’ To rob Go d s sacred treasure -house

He was no whit afraid .

A nd so for centuries he worked . Across the void at last A bridge of precious mold di d stand

Completed , strong and fast . So now the faithful lovers met

A nd all woe was their past .

But soon a shini ng angel guard Sped to the throne of gold “ see on - e And said, Lord, y new made bridg ,

A mortal, overbold, ! Has built it , scorning thy desire

Straightway the tale he told . [265] EAR LY POE MS

h sa : s see T en id Now, Ma ter, Thou mayst

has w The thing that been rought .

a Spe k, then, the word, stretch forth Thine hand That with the speed o f thought This poor presumptuous work may fall ” And crumble into naught .

Go d looked upon the angel then

And on the bridge below . Then with His smile o f majesty “ : all He said Let things know,

has This bridge, which by Love been i n t I w ll ooverthrow . When darkness hovers over earth A nd day gives place to night, Then lovers see the Milky Way

am i Gle myst cally bright,

l of And cal ing it the Way Love,

They hail it with delight .

[2 66]

EARLY P OT MS

Her tears dropped down li ke sun-filled rain

Through stars and starless space, Until at last in Chev ely town Where in a moonlit place

Her lover knelt upon her grave,

They fell upon his face .

b e M Said , y love, my only love, ! My Elena, my Sweet Through what wild ways of myst ery Have strayed your little feet ? t Alone, alone this lonely nigh W here qnly spirits meet ! It is not my bleak desert li fe

u That t rns 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 ! [268] CH E VE L Y CROS SING

i s Though Heaven a pleasant place, What joy f or you is there ? Who tread the jewelled streets alone Without my heart to share

o f a Each throb your heart, and my rm

ou ! Around y , O my Fair

I hear your sobbing in the wind, A nd in the summ er 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 !

9k {6

Where two roads cross by Chev ely town

A man is lying dead . The rumbling wains of scented hay Roll over his fair head ; t A s ake is driven through his heart,

For his own blood he shed . EARLY POEMS

THE OTHER LOVER

’ M off home from the stormy sea, I A nd down the street The folk come out to welcome me

On eager feet .

Go d ou O neighbours , be with y all, But for my true love I must call ; She lingers in her father ’ s hall

so ! So shy, sweet

Here is a string o f milky pearls

F or her to wear , A n amber comb to match the curls

Of her bright hair . 0 ! 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 .

a Good d me, 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 M m ? y God, what makes you wo en cry Come tell me that I too may die ! 1 3 my lov e dead ? [270]