Trees and Other Poems | Page 9

Berkshire hills, I think. And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.
Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much;?They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such. But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish; He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.
The other night I 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 of white And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.
And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. And the water was churned and broken, and something 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 about;?There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak?And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.
It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set?I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.
I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye?And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave?And put some flowers on it -- but this will be better for Dave.
Alarm Clocks
When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm?Across green fields and yellow hills of hay?The little twittering birds laugh in his way?And poise triumphant on his shining arm.?He bears a sword of flame but not to harm?The wakened life that feels his quickening sway?And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!"?Take by his grace a new and alien charm.
But in the city, like a wounded thing?That limps to cover from the angry chase,?He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,?And wanly mock his young and shameful face;?And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring?In many a high and dreary sleeping place.
Waverley
1814-1914
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!
[End of Trees and Other Poems.]
The following biographical information is taken from the 1917 edition of Jessie B. Rittenhouse's anthology of Modern Verse.
Kilmer, Joyce. Born at New Brunswick, New Jersey, December 6, 1886, and graduated at Columbia University in 1908. After a short period of teaching he became associated with Funk and Wagnalls Company, where he remained from 1909 to 1912, when he assumed the position of literary editor of "The Churchman". In 1913 Mr. Kilmer became a member of the staff of the "New York Times", a position which he still occupies. His volumes of poetry are: "A Summer of Love", 1911, and "Trees, and Other Poems", 1914.
Kilmer died in France in 1918, and also published another volume, "Main Street and Other Poems", 1917, as well as individual poems, essays, etc.
End of this etext of Trees and Other Poems
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