Trees and Other Poems | Page 3

Kilmer
[Alfred Joyce Kilmer, American (New Jersey & New York) Poet --
1886-1918.]
[Note on text: There were no italics to mark in this text. Lines longer

than 76 characters have been broken according to metre, and the
continuation is indented two spaces.]
[Note: This etext was transcribed from the edition of 1914.]
Trees and Other Poems
"Mine is no horse with wings, to gain
The region of the Spheral
chime;
He does but drag a rumbling wain,
Cheered by the coupled
bells of rhyme."
Coventry Patmore
Trees and Other Poems
by Joyce Kilmer
To My Mother
Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold
(I know it does) a record
of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For
halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over these childish scrawls the
years have rolled,
They might not know the world's unfriendly gaze;

But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words
and turns their dross to gold.
More dear to-day than in that vanished time
Comes your nigh praise
to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love's
splendid chime,
So unto you does this, my work belong.
Take, then,
a little gift of fragile rhyme:
Your heart will change it to authentic
song.
[A number of these poems originally appeared in various periodicals.]
Contents
The Twelve-Forty-Five
Pennies
Trees
Stars
Old Poets

Delicatessen
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy
Wealth
Martin
The
Apartment House
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
St.

Laurence
To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
Memorial Day

The Rosary
Vision
To Certain Poets
Love's Lantern
St. Alexis

Folly
Madness
Poets
Citizen of the World
To a Blackbird and
His Mate Who Died in the Spring
The Fourth Shepherd
Easter

Mount Houvenkopf
The House with Nobody in It
Dave Lilly

Alarm Clocks
Waverley
Trees and Other Poems
The Twelve-Forty-Five
(For Edward J. Wheeler)
Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head,

The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of
night.
And now the grave incurious stars
Gleam on the groaning
hurrying cars.
Against the kind and awful reign
Of darkness, this
our angry train,
A noisy little rebel, pouts
Its brief defiance, flames
and shouts --
And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For darkness
holds its ancient place,
Serene and absolute, the king
Unchanged, of
every living thing.
The houses lie obscure and still
In Rutherford
and Carlton Hill.
Our lamps intensify the dark
Of slumbering
Passaic Park.
And quiet holds the weary feet
That daily tramp
through Prospect Street.
What though we clang and clank and roar

Through all Passaic's streets? No door
Will open, not an eye will see

Who this loud vagabond may be.
Upon my crimson cushioned seat,

In manufactured light and heat,
I feel unnatural and mean.

Outside the towns are cool and clean;
Curtained awhile from sound
and sight
They take God's gracious gift of night.
The stars are
watchful over them.
On Clifton as on Bethlehem
The angels,
leaning down the sky,
Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I --
I ride,
I blasphemously ride
Through all the silent countryside.
The
engine's shriek, the headlight's glare,
Pollute the still nocturnal air.

The cottages of Lake View sigh
And sleeping, frown as we pass by.


Why, even strident Paterson
Rests quietly as any nun.
Her foolish
warring children keep
The grateful armistice of sleep.
For what
tremendous errand's sake
Are we so blatantly awake?
What
precious secret is our freight?
What king must be abroad so late?

Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night
And we rush forth to give him
fight.
Or else, perhaps, we speed his way
To some remote
unthinking prey.
Perhaps a woman writhes in pain
And listens --
listens for the train!
The train, that like an angel sings,
The train,
with healing on its wings.
Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries.

My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.
He hurries yawning through the
car
And steps out where the houses are.
This is the reason of our
quest!
Not wantonly we break the rest
Of town and village, nor do
we
Lightly profane night's sanctity.
What Love commands the train
fulfills,
And beautiful upon the hills
Are these our feet of burnished
steel.
Subtly and certainly I feel
That Glen Rock welcomes us to
her
And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
And smile, because she
knows the train
Has brought her children back again.
We carry
people home -- and so
God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
Hohokus,
Waldwick, Allendale
Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.
In Ramsey,
Mahwah, Suffern stand
Houses that wistfully demand
A father --
son -- some human thing
That this, the midnight train, may bring.

The trains that travel in the day

They hurry folks to work or play.

The midnight train is slow and old
But of it let this thing be told,
To
its high honor be it said
It carries people home to bed.
My cottage
lamp shines white and clear.
God bless the train that brought me here.
Pennies
A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand
Behold him stand;
A kilted
Hedonist, perplexed and sad.
The joy that once he had,
The first
delight of ownership is fled.
He bows his little head.
Ah, cruel Time,
to kill
That splendid thrill!
Then in his tear-dimmed eyes
New lights arise.
He drops his

treasured pennies on the ground,
They roll and bound
And scattered,
rest.
Now with what zest
He runs to find his errant wealth again!
So unto men
Doth God, depriving that He may bestow.
Fame,
health and money go,
But that they may, new found, be newly sweet.

Yea,