The Poems of Joyce Kilmer

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A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand
An iron hand has stilled the throats
At the foot of the Cross on Calvary
Because the road was steep and long
Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air
For blows on the fort of evil
From what old ballad, or from what rich frame
Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!”
He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautifulfaces
If I should live in a forest
I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea
In alien earth, across a troubled sea
I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well
I think that I shall never see
I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring
The garden of God is a radiant place
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” the Angel saith
Led by a star, a golden star
No longer of Him be it said
Not on the lute, or harp of many strings
Now by what whim of wanton chance
Now is the rhymer’s honest trade
One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed
On nights like this the huddled sheep
My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold
The roar of the world is in my ears
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone
Serene and beautiful and very wise
Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky
The air is like a butterfly
The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet
The fragile splendour of the level sea
The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet
The Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone
The Kings of the earth are men of might
The lonely farm, the crowded street
There is a wall of flesh before the eyes
There’s a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout
There was a gentle hostler
There was a little maiden
There was a murkier tinge in London’s air
The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is sweet
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
We who beg for bread as we daily tread
What distant mountains thrill and glow
When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
When I am tired of earnest men
When on a novel’s newly printed page
When you had played with life a space
When you shall die and to the sky
With drooping sail and pennant
Within the broken Vatican
Within the Jersey City shed
Why is that wanton gossip Fame
Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously
Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created March 31, 2001; revised April 3, 2001.