Joyce Kilmer Poems
|3.||The House With Nobody In It||12/31/2002|
|5.||As Winds That Blow Against A Star||12/31/2002|
|8.||Prayer Of A Soldier In France||12/31/2002|
|9.||Ballade Of My Lady's Beauty||1/4/2003|
|11.||A Blue Valentine||12/31/2002|
|12.||Citizen Of The World||12/31/2002|
|17.||To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself||12/31/2002|
|31.||The Snowman In The Yard||12/31/2002|
|32.||St. Alexis, Patron Of Beggars||12/31/2002|
|33.||To Certain Poets||12/31/2002|
|36.||To A Blackbird And His Mate Who Died In The Spring||12/31/2002|
|38.||The White Ships And The Red||12/31/2002|
|39.||The Fourth Shepherd||12/31/2002|
|40.||Servant Girl And Grocer's Boy||12/31/2002|
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.
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.