Escritas

Poems List

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

3

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

3

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

Trees, l. 11

2

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. 1

Trees [1913], l. 1

3

Waverley

Waverley
-
When, on a novel's newly printed page
We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,
And read of ways that harlots wander in,
And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;
Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,
Taps on her desk and bids the class begin
To con the problems that have always been
Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;
Then in what robes of honor habited
The laureled wizard of the North appears!
Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,
Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,
And formed that shining legion at whose head
Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!
117

Trees

Trees
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
184

To a Young Poet who Killed Himself

To a Young Poet who Killed Himself
When you had played with life a space
And made it drink and lust and sing,
You flung it back into God's face
And thought you did a noble thing.
"Lo, I have lived and loved," you said,
"And sung to fools too dull to hear me.
Now for a cool and grassy bed
With violets in blossom near me."
Well, rest is good for weary feet,
Although they ran for no great prize;
And violets are very sweet,
Although their roots are in your eyes.
But hark to what the earthworms say
Who share with you your muddy haven:
"The fight was on -- you ran away.
You are a coward and a craven."
"The rug is ruined where you bled;
It was a dirty way to die!
To put a bullet through your head
And make a silly woman cry!
You could not vex the merry stars
Nor make them heed you, dead or living.
Not all your puny anger mars
God's irresistible forgiving.
"Yes, God forgives and men forget,
And you're forgiven and forgotten.
You may be gaily sinning yet
And quick and fresh instead of rotten.
And when you think of love and fame
And all that might have come to pass,
Then don't you feel a little shame?
And don't you think you were an ass?"
143

The White Ships and the Red

The White Ships and the Red
(For Alden March)
With drooping sail and pennant
That never a wind may reach,
They float in sunless waters
Beside a sunless beach.
Their mighty masts and funnels
Are white as driven snow,
And with a pallid radiance
Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
Here is a Spanish galleon
That once with gold was gay,
Here is a Roman trireme
Whose hues outshone the day.
But Tyrian dyes have faded,
And prows that once were bright
With rainbow stains wear only
Death's livid, dreadful white.
White as the ice that clove her
That unforgotten day,
Among her pallid sisters
The grim Titanic lay.
And through the leagues above her
She looked aghast, and said:
"What is this living ship that comes
Where every ship is dead?"
The ghostly vessels trembled
From ruined stern to prow;
What was this thing of terror
That broke their vigil now?
Down through the startled ocean
A mighty vessel came,
Not white, as all dead ships must be,
But red, like living flame!
The pale green waves about her
Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
By the great scarlet stream that flowed
From out her wounded side.
And all her decks were scarlet
And all her shattered crew.
She sank among the white ghost ships
And stained them through and through.
The grim Titanic greeted her
"And who art thou?" she said;
"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
Arrayed in living red?
We are the ships of sorrow


Who spend the weary night,
Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
Obscure and still and white."
"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
"Though I sink through the sea,
A ruined thing that was a ship,
I sink not as did ye.
For ye met with your destiny
By storm or rock or fight,
So through the lagging centuries
Ye wear your robes of white.
"But never crashing iceberg
Nor honest shot of foe,
Nor hidden reef has sent me
The way that I must go.
My wound that stains the waters,
My blood that is like flame,
Bear witness to a loathly deed,
A deed without a name.
"I went not forth to battle,
I carried friendly men,
The children played about my decks,
The women sang -- and then --
And then -- the sun blushed scarlet
And Heaven hid its face,
The world that God created
Became a shameful place!
"My wrong cries out for vengeance,
The blow that sent me here
Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
Has reached Jehovah's ear.
Not all the seven oceans
Shall wash away that stain;
Upon a brow that wears a crown
I am the brand of Cain."
When God's great voice assembles
The fleet on Judgment Day,
The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
In sea and strait and bay.
Though they have lain for ages
Beneath the changeless flood,
They shall be white as silver,
But one -- shall be like blood.
114

The House with Nobody in It

The House with Nobody in It
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.
But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.
121

The Apartment House

The Apartment House
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky
The great stone box is cruelly displayed.
The street becomes more dreary from its shade,
And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.
Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie,
Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.
How worse than folly is their labor made
Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!
Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face
Gleam from a window far above the street.
This is a house of homes, a sacred place,
By human passion made divinely sweet.
How all the building thrills with sudden grace
Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!
116

Comments (0)

ShareOn Facebook WhatsApp X
Log in to post a comment.

NoComments

Identification and basic context

Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American writer, poet, and literary critic. He is most famous for his poem "Trees." He was born into a devoutly religious family and maintained a strong Catholic faith throughout his life, which deeply influenced his work. He was American and wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Kilmer was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey. He received his early education in public schools and later attended Rutgers University, graduating in 1908. He pursued further studies at Columbia University, earning a Master of Arts degree in 1909. His academic background provided him with a solid grounding in literature and language.

Literary trajectory

Kilmer began his literary career as a journalist and critic after completing his studies. He worked for various publications, including "The Literary Digest" and "The New York Times," reviewing books and writing articles. His poetry began to gain recognition during this period, culminating in the publication of his most famous work, "Trees," in 1913. His career was tragically cut short by his death in World War I.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Kilmer's major works include collections of poetry such as "Summer of Love" (1911), "Trees and Other Poems" (1914), and "Main Street and Other Poems" (1915). His dominant themes were nature, faith, love, patriotism, and the beauty found in everyday life. His style is characterized by its lyrical quality, accessible language, and traditional metrical forms, often employing rhyme and a clear, direct voice. "Trees" is celebrated for its vivid imagery and its sincere appreciation for the natural world and its divine creator. His poetic voice is often earnest, devotional, and appreciative.

Cultural and historical context

Kilmer lived during a period of significant change in America, including rapid industrialization and the looming presence of World War I. He was a staunch patriot and a devout Catholic, and his writings often reflected these commitments. He was part of the literary scene of his time, engaging with other writers and contributing to periodicals that shaped public discourse. His enlistment and death in the war made him a symbol of patriotic sacrifice for many.

Personal life

Kilmer was married to Annie McEvoy Kilmer, who was also a writer. They had five children. His conversion to Catholicism deeply impacted his worldview and creative output. His decision to enlist in the army at the age of 36, despite having a family and a developing literary career, underscored his strong sense of duty and patriotism.

Recognition and reception

Kilmer gained considerable popularity during his lifetime, particularly after the success of "Trees." He was recognized as a poet who articulated the sentiments of many Americans. While "Trees" remains his most enduring work, his broader literary contributions have been subject to varying critical assessments over time. His patriotic sacrifice also cemented his place in American memory.

Influences and legacy

Kilmer was influenced by classical poets and the literary traditions of his time. His most significant legacy is "Trees," which has become one of the most widely recognized and recited poems in the English language, often symbolizing a love for nature and simple beauty. His work continues to be appreciated for its accessibility and heartfelt expression of faith and patriotism.

Interpretation and critical analysis

"Trees" is often interpreted as a celebration of the inherent beauty and resilience of nature, as well as a testament to divine creation. Critics have noted its straightforward sentiment and its broad appeal, though some have also pointed out its conventionality compared to more modernist poetry of the era.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his fame for "Trees," Kilmer considered himself primarily a critic and prose writer. He famously stated that "Trees" was written "without any effort or premeditation," almost as an afterthought. His deep commitment to his faith led him to convert from Methodism to Catholicism.

Death and memory

Joyce Kilmer was killed in action on July 30, 1918, during the Second Battle of the Marne in France, while serving with the U.S. Army's 42nd Division. His death at the age of 31 made him a posthumous symbol of American wartime sacrifice. His body was never identified, but a memorial stands in his honor near the site of his death.