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.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American poet, journalist, literary critic, lecturer, and soldier. Though a prolific poet whose works celebrated the common beauty of the natural world, he is best known for a short poem titled 'Trees' (1913), which was published in Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. Kilmer's work has been widely anthologized and remains well-loved. He died during World War I in France at the age of 31.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Gates and Doors

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, Simple Poetry

To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, Simple Poetry

Martin

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, Simple Poetry

Folly

Alfred Joyce Kilmer, Simple Poetry

English

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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 work, or embroidery?" he said,
"For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!"
"You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell
For the idea you express I will not listen to:
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Without having to pay attention to orators like you.

"When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work
You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.
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The Madness Of King Goll

I sat on cushioned otter-skin:
My word was law from Ith to Emain,
And shook at Inver Amergin
The hearts of the world-troubling seamen,
And drove tumult and war away
From girl and boy and man and beast;
The fields grew fatter day by day,
The wild fowl of the air increased;
And every ancient Ollave said,
While he bent down his fading head.
"He drives away the Northern cold.'
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I sat and mused and drank sweet wine;
A herdsman came from inland valleys,
Crying, the pirates drove his swine
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I called my battle-breaking men
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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 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.

But in the city, like a wounded thing
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He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,
    And wanly mock his young and shameful face;
And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring
    In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Melancholia

Silently without my window,
Tapping gently at the pane,
Falls the rain.
Through the trees sighs the breeze
Like a soul in pain.
Here alone I sit and weep;
Thought hath banished sleep.

Wearily I sit and listen
To the water's ceaseless drip.
To my lip
Fate turns up the bitter cup,
Forcing me to sip;
'T is a bitter, bitter drink,
Thus I sit and think,--

Thinking things unknown and awful,
Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes,
Waking dreams.
Spectres dark, corpses stark,
Show the gaping seams
Whence the cold and cruel knife
Stole away their life.

Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring,
Gazing ghastly into mine;
Blood like wine
On the brow--clotted now--
Shows death's dreadful sign.
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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 outstretched to a star,
There is jubilation in Heaven
Where the great dead poets are.

There is joy over disappointment
And delight in hopes that were vain.
Each poet is glad there was no cure
To stop his lonely pain.
For nothing keeps a poet
In his high singing mood
Like unappeasable hunger
For unattainable food.

So fools are glad of the folly
That made them weep and sing,
And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne
And Drummond for his king.
They know that on flinty sorrow
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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,
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Alfred Joyce Kilmer