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Best Famous Joyce Kilmer Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Joyce Kilmer poems. This is a select list of the best famous Joyce Kilmer poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Joyce Kilmer poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of joyce kilmer poems.

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Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Waverley

 1814-1914

When, on a novel's newly printed page
We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,
And read of ways that harlots wander in,
And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;
Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,
Taps on her desk and bids the class begin
To con the problems that have always been
Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;
Then in what robes of honor habited
The laureled wizard of the North appears!
Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,
Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,
And formed that shining legion at whose head
Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Madness

 (For Sara Teasdale)

The lonely farm, the crowded street,
The palace and the slum,
Give welcome to my silent feet
As, bearing gifts, I come.
Last night a beggar crouched alone, A ragged helpless thing; I set him on a moonbeam throne -- Today he is a king.
Last night a king in orb and crown Held court with splendid cheer; Today he tears his purple gown And moans and shrieks in fear.
Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, Not land, nor sky, nor sea, Nor love's artillery of tears Can keep mine own from me.
Serene, unchanging, ever fair, I smile with secret mirth And in a net of mine own hair I swing the captive earth.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

The Singing Girl

 (For the Rev.
Edward F.
Garesche, S.
J.
) There was a little maiden In blue and silver drest, She sang to God in Heaven And God within her breast.
It flooded me with pleasure, It pierced me like a sword, When this young maiden sang: "My soul Doth magnify the Lord.
" The stars sing all together And hear the angels sing, But they said they had never heard So beautiful a thing.
Saint Mary and Saint Joseph, And Saint Elizabeth, Pray for us poets now And at the hour of death.


More great poems below...

Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Citizen of the World

 No longer of Him be it said
"He hath no place to lay His head.
" In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty camp.
There is no strange and distant place That is not gladdened by His face.
And every nation kneels to hail The Splendour shining through Its veil.
Cloistered beside the shouting street, Silent, He calls me to His feet.
Imprisoned for His love of me He makes my spirit greatly free.
And through my lips that uttered sin The King of Glory enters in.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

The Annunciation

 (For Helen Parry Eden)

"Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith.
Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed; She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named, Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.
Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth; Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed, Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed, And human lips have trembled in God's breath.
O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover With thy white self, whereon no stain can be, Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover, Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.
About thy head celestial legions hover, Chanting the praise of thy humility.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

 In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
His body lies that was so fair and young.
His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, We keep the vision of his chivalry.
So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Mount Houvenkopf

 Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned,
And draws a cloak of trees about his breast.
The thunder roars but cannot break his rest And from his rugged face the tempests bound.
He does not heed the angry lightning's wound, The raging blizzard is his harmless guest, And human life is but a passing jest To him who sees Time spin the years around.
But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find High vantage-points and view him from afar.
How low he seems to the ascended mind, How brief he seems where all things endless are; This little playmate of the mighty wind This young companion of an ancient star.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Vision

 (For Aline)

Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful 
faces
Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream,
Yet did he seem
Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places.
I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, Yet have I seen All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

To Certain Poets

 Now is the rhymer's honest trade
A thing for scornful laughter made.
The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain, These are the burden of our pain.
Because of you did this befall, You brought this shame upon us all.
You little poets mincing there With women's hearts and women's hair! How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be To hear you lisp of "Poesie"! A heavy-handed blow, I think, Would make your veins drip scented ink.
You strut and smirk your little while So mildly, delicately vile! Your tiny voices mock God's wrath, You snails that crawl along His path! Why, what has God or man to do With wet, amorphous things like you? This thing alone you have achieved: Because of you, it is believed That all who earn their bread by rhyme Are like yourselves, exuding slime.
Oh, cease to write, for very shame, Ere all men spit upon our name! Take up your needles, drop your pen, And leave the poet's craft to men!


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

St. Laurence

 Within the broken Vatican
The murdered Pope is lying dead.
The soldiers of Valerian Their evil hands are wet and red.
Unarmed, unmoved, St.
Laurence waits, His cassock is his only mail.
The troops of Hell have burst the gates, But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.
They have encompassed him with steel, They spit upon his gentle face, He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal The Church's hidden treasure-place.
Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, Well hast thou done.
Behold thy fee! Since thou hast fought the goodly fight A martyr's death is fixed for thee.
St.
Laurence, pray for us to bear The faith which glorifies thy name.
St.
Laurence, pray for us to share The wounds of Love's consuming flame.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

The Fourth Shepherd

 (For Thomas Walsh)

I

On nights like this the huddled sheep
Are like white clouds upon the grass,
And merry herdsmen guard their sleep
And chat and watch the big stars pass.
It is a pleasant thing to lie Upon the meadow on the hill With kindly fellowship near by Of sheep and men of gentle will.
I lean upon my broken crook And dream of sheep and grass and men -- O shameful eyes that cannot look On any honest thing again! On bloody feet I clambered down And fled the wages of my sin, I am the leavings of the town, And meanly serve its meanest inn.
I tramp the courtyard stones in grief, While sleep takes man and beast to her.
And every cloud is calling "Thief!" And every star calls "Murderer!" II The hand of God is sure and strong, Nor shall a man forever flee The bitter punishment of wrong.
The wrath of God is over me! With ashen bread and wine of tears Shall I be solaced in my pain.
I wear through black and endless years Upon my brow the mark of Cain.
III Poor vagabond, so old and mild, Will they not keep him for a night? And She, a woman great with child, So frail and pitiful and white.
Good people, since the tavern door Is shut to you, come here instead.
See, I have cleansed my stable floor And piled fresh hay to make a bed.
Here is some milk and oaten cake.
Lie down and sleep and rest you fair, Nor fear, O simple folk, to take The bounty of a child of care.
IV On nights like this the huddled sheep -- I never saw a night so fair.
How huge the sky is, and how deep! And how the planets flash and glare! At dawn beside my drowsy flock What winged music I have heard! But now the clouds with singing rock As if the sky were turning bird.
O blinding Light, O blinding Light! Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.
O flaming Song, most loudly bright, Consume away my deadly stain! V The stable glows against the sky, And who are these that throng the way? My three old comrades hasten by And shining angels kneel and pray.
The door swings wide -- I cannot go -- I must and yet I dare not see.
Lord, who am I that I should know -- Lord, God, be merciful to me! VI O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece Of new-washed sheep on April sod! O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace, O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Folly

 (For A.
K.
K.
) What distant mountains thrill and glow Beneath our Lady Folly's tread? Why has she left us, wise in woe, Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? We cannot love or dream or sing, We are too cynical to pray, There is no joy in anything Since Lady Folly went away.
Many a knight and gentle maid, Whose glory shines from years gone by, Through ignorance was unafraid And as a fool knew how to die.
Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne And broke the ranks of Hell with her, And Folly's smile shone brightly on Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper.
Our minds are troubled and defiled By study in a weary school.
O for the folly of the child! The ready courage of the fool! Lord, crush our knowledge utterly And make us humble, simple men; And cleansed of wisdom, let us see Our Lady Folly's face again.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Easter Week

 See the land, her Easter keeping, 
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing.
You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted; Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring- Work of fingers, chant of voices, Like the birds who build and sing.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Memorial Day

 "Dulce et decorum est"

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red On tombs where weary soldiers lie; Flags wave above the honored dead And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, Who went through fire and death to earn At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed They march, the legions of the Lord; He is their Captain unafraid, The Prince of Peace .
.
.
Who brought a sword.


Written by Joyce Kilmer | |

Lionel Johnson

 (For the Rev.
John J.
Burke, C.
S.
P.
) There was a murkier tinge in London's air As if the honest fog blushed black for shame.
Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim, And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire.
The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere, But in their midst a radiant lily came Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame, Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair.
And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King", Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land? Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing To take in his thine emulative hand? Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand?