Joyce Kilmer
In Memory
I Serene and beautiful and very wise, Most erudite in curious Grecian lore, You lay and read your learned books, and bore A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs. The song within your
St. Alexis, Patron of Beggars
We who beg for bread as we daily tread Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway To the saint with the vagrant feet. Our altar light is
Queen Elizabeth Speaks
My hands were stained with blood, my heart was Proud and cold, My soul is black with shame. . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace
The Visitation
(For Louise Imogen Guiney) There is a wall of flesh before the eyes Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. It is Our Lady’s painful bliss to bring Before mankind the Glory
Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J
Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously, And match and blend thy words with curious art? For Song, one saith, is but a human heart Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. Nay, God be praised,
The Cathedral of Rheims
(From the French of Emile Verhaeren) He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, Sees it draw near Like some great mountain set upon the
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,
Delicatessen
Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man’s affairs? Why do we titter at his name Who come to buy his curious wares? Here is a shop of wonderment. From every
To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
When you had played with life a space And made it drink and lust and sing, You flung it back into God’s face And thought you did a noble thing. “Lo, I have lived
Stars
(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.) Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, Are you errant strands of Lady Mary’s hair? As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through,
Gates and Doors
(For Richardson Little Wright) There was a gentle hostler (And blessed be his name!) He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and Saint Joseph, He gave them food and
Love's Lantern
(For Aline) Because the road was steep and long And through a dark and lonely land, God set upon my lips a song And put a lantern in my hand. Through miles on weary
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
The White Ships and the Red
(For Alden March) With drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters Beside a sunless beach. Their mighty masts and funnels Are white as driven snow, And
Multiplication
(For S. M. E.) I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well; I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell; O happy lamp! to serve Him with never
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
(For Aline) Now by what whim of wanton chance Do radiant eyes know sombre days? And feet that shod in light should dance Walk weary and laborious ways? But rays from Heaven, white and
To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring
(For Kenton) An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee And dammed the flood of silver notes That drenched the world in melody. The blosmy apple boughs are
The New School
(For My Mother) The halls that were loud with the merry tread of Young and careless feet Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, And never a gust
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
The Rosary
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings Shall all men praise the Master of all song. Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long; And skilled must be the laureates
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
Main Street
(For S. M. L.) I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, But it isn’t half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be When it
Martin
When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless
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
Old Poets
(For Robert Cortez Holliday) If I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree, No grove of impudent saplings Would make a home for me. I’d go where the old oaks gather,
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
Alarm Clocks
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
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
Kings
(For the Rev. James B. Dollard) The Kings of the earth are men of might, And cities are burned for their delight, And the skies rain death in the silent night, And the hills
Dave Lilly
There’s a brook on the side of Greylock that used To be full of trout, But there’s nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished Out. I fished there many a
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
The Big Top
The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering To my heart And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. I take off my hat to the
Poets
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. Light songs we breathe
Apology
(For Eleanor Rogers Cox) For blows on the fort of evil That never shows a breach, For terrible life-long races To a goal no foot can reach, For reckless leaps into darkness With hands
The Robe of Christ
(For Cecil Chesterton) At the foot of the Cross on Calvary Three soldiers sat and diced, And one of them was the Devil And he won the Robe of Christ. When the Devil comes
Trees
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) 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
Mid-ocean in War-time
(For My Mother) The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon’s serene and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time,
The Proud Poet
(For Shaemas O Sheel) One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. “Why don’t you take up fancy
The House with Nobody in It
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy
Her lips’ remark was: “Oh, you kid!” Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): “O king of realms of endless joy, My own, my golden grocer’s boy, I am a princess forced to
Easter Week
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) (“Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.”) William Butler Yeats. “Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.” Then, Yeats, what
Wealth
(For Aline) From what old ballad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth? Was it from Chaucer’s singing book you came? Or did Watteau’s small brushes give you birth?
A Blue Valentine
(For Aline) Monsignore, Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, I respectfully salute you, I genuflect And I kiss your episcopal ring. It
Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr) The road is wide and the stars are out And the breath of the night is sweet, And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet. But
The Thorn
(For the Rev. Charles L. O’Donnell, C. S. C.) The garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,
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,
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
Pennies
A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand Behold him stand; A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad. The joy that once he had, The first delight of ownership is fled. He bows his little head.
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
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
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
Roses
(For Katherine Bregy) I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring, For I would make a posy, a posy for the King. I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,
The Snowman in the Yard
(For Thomas Augustine Daly) The Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars And steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across The seas; In the Hales’
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
Houses
(For Aline) When you shall die and to the sky Serenely, delicately go, Saint Peter, when he sees you there, Will clash his keys and say: “Now talk to her, Sir Christopher! And hurry,
The Twelve-Forty-Five
(For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its head, The smoke, a plume of red and white, Waves madly in the face of night. And now the
The Apartment House
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade, And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. Here sullen convicts in
Thanksgiving
(For John Bunker) The roar of the world is in my ears. Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God