Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

Monsignore, Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,

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

(For Eleanor Rogers Cox) For blows on the fort of evil That never shows a breach,

(For Aline) Now by what whim of wanton chance

No longer of Him be it said "He hath no place to lay His head." In every land a constant lamp

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 Summer day some twenty years ago,

Why is that wanton gossip Fame So dumb about this man's affairs? Why do we titter at his name

The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky

(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.")

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

(For A. K. K.) What distant mountains thrill and glow Beneath our Lady Folly's tread?

(For Richardson Little Wright) There was a gentle hostler (And blessed be his name!)

(For Aline) When you shall die and to the sky Serenely, delicately go,

I Serene and beautiful and very wise, Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,

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;

(For the Rev. James B. Dollard) The Kings of the earth are men of might, And cities are burned for their delight,

(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.

(For Aline) Because the road was steep and long And through a dark and lonely land,

(For Sara Teasdale) The lonely farm, the crowded street, The palace and the slum,

(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 I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen

"Dulce et decorum est" The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day.

(For My Mother) The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon's serene and silver-veiled face,

Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned, And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. The thunder roars but cannot break his rest

(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;

(For Robert Cortez Holliday) If I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree,

A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand Behold him stand; A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad.

Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells

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 of God,

(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.

(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.

Her lips' remark was:    "Oh, you kid!" Her soul spoke thus (I know it did): "O king of realms of endless joy,

We who beg for bread as we daily tread Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway

Within the broken Vatican The murdered Pope is lying dead. The soldiers of Valerian

(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?

(For John Bunker) The roar of the world is in my ears. Thank God for the roar of the world!

(For Helen Parry Eden) "Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith. Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;

Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade,

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 acrobat with his delicate, strong art,

(From the French of Emile Verhaeren) He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,

(For Thomas Walsh) I On nights like this the huddled sheep

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 for a minute

(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,

(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.

(For Cecil Chesterton) At the foot of the Cross on Calvary Three soldiers sat and diced,

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;

(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.) There was a little maiden In blue and silver drest,

(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;

(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:

(For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shed The engine coughs and shakes its head,

(For Louise Imogen Guiney) There is a wall of flesh before the eyes Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King.

(For Alden March) With drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach,

When you had played with life a space And made it drink and lust and sing, You flung it back into God's face

Now is the rhymer's honest trade A thing for scornful laughter made. The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain,

Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold (I know it does) a record of the days When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise

(For Kenton) An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

(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,

1814-1914 When, on a novel's newly printed page We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,

(For Aline) From what old ballad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth?