- 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.
JOYCE KILMER, "Alarm Clocks"
- Fair Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed
- To take that weary vagrant to thy breast.
- Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one need--Rest.
JOYCE KILMER, "A Dead Poet"
- Far happier he, who, young and full of pride
- And radiant with the glory of the sun,
- Leaves earth before his singing time is done.
- All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,
- His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.
JOYCE KILMER, "The Clouded Sun"
- Dreams fade with morning light,
- Never a morn for thee,
- Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.
JOYCE KILMER, "The Poet's Epitaph"
- There is no place in which to hide
- When Age comes seeking for his bride.
JOYCE KILMER, "Age Comes A-Wooing"
- Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;
- Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.
- It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder;
- It is a linnet's fluting after rain.
JOYCE KILMER, "In Memory"
I 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;
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.
JOYCE KILMER, "Trees"