Joyce Kilmer Poems
|41.||To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself||12/31/2002|
|44.||Citizen Of The World||12/31/2002|
|47.||A Blue Valentine||12/31/2002|
|48.||As Winds That Blow Against A Star||12/31/2002|
|49.||Ballade Of My Lady's Beauty||1/4/2003|
|51.||Prayer Of A Soldier In France||12/31/2002|
|53.||The House With Nobody In It||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.
"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;