Trees and Other Poems

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George H. Doran Company, 1914 - American poetry - 75 pages

Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer, first published in 1914, is a rare manuscript, the original residing in one of the great libraries of the world. This book is a reproduction of that original, which has been scanned and cleaned by state-of-the-art publishing tools for better readability and enhanced appreciation.

Restoration Editors' mission is to bring long out of print manuscripts back to life. Some smudges, annotations or unclear text may still exist, due to permanent damage to the original work. We believe the literary significance of the text justifies offering this reproduction, allowing a new generation to appreciate it.


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Page 67 - 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,...
Page 17 - 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.
Page 31 - Upon the bleak and sombre earth. Some people ask : What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, — Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.
Page 21 - About his sex and soul ; But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, And polishes its bowl. There should be a club for poets Who have come to seventy year. They should sit in a great hall drinking Red wine and golden beer. They would shuffle in of an evening, Each one to his cushioned seat, And there would be mellow talking And silence rich and sweet. There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought And the songs that must be sung. But the old man...
Page 14 - The midnight train is slow and old But of it let this thing be told, To its hig"h 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!
Page 19 - Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky. Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men, Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again. Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are, Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.
Page 31 - What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child. Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not...
Page 65 - 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...
Page 26 - O Carpenter of Nazareth, Whose mother was a village maid, Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath In scorn on any humble trade? Have pity on our foolishness And give us eyes, that we may see Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress The splendor of humanity!
Page 15 - 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. TREES AND OTHER...

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