Trees and Other Poems | Joyce Kilmer | Poetry | Audio Book | English



section 1 of trees and other poems by choice Kilmer this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org recording by Phil Chenevert trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer section one breeze for mrs. Henry mills Alden I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree a tree who's hungry mouth is pressed against the earth 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 to my mother 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 halting verse sins stories crudely told over these childish scrolls the years have rolled they might not know the world's unfriendly gaze but still your smile shines down familiar ways touches my words and turns their dross to gold more dear today than in that vanished time comes your nige to make me proud and strong in my poor notes you here loves a splendid chime so unto you does this my work belong take then a little gift of fragile rhyme your heart will change it to authentic song the 1245 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 grave in curious Stars gleam on the groaning hurrying cars against the kind and awful rain of Darkness this are angry train a noisy little rebel pouts its brief defiance flames and shouts and passes on and leaves no trace for darkness holes its ancient place serene and absolute the king unchanged of every living thing the houses lie obscure and still in Rutherford and Carlton Hill our lamps intensified the dark of slumbering Passaic Park and quiet holes the weary feet that daily tramped through Prospect Street what though we clang and Clank and roar through all Passaic streets no door will open nor and I will see who this loud vagabond may be upon my crimson cushioned seat it manufactured light and heat I feel a natural and mean outside the towns are cool and clean curtain'd a while from sound and sight they take God's gracious gift of night the stars are watchful over them on Clifton as on Bethlehem the angels leaning down the sky shed peace and gentle dreams and I high ride I blasphemously ride through all the silent countryside the engines shriek the headlights glare pollute the still nocturnal air the cottages of Lakeview sigh and sleeping frown as we pass by why even strident Paterson Russ as quietly as any none her foolish warring children keep the Grateful Armistice of sleep for what tremendous errands sake are we so blatantly awake what precious secret is our freight what King must be abroad so late perhaps death roams the hills tonight as we rush forth to give him fight or else perhaps we speed his way to some remote unthinking prey perhaps a woman rise in pain and listens lessons for the train the train that like an angel sings the train with healing on its wings now Hawthorne the conductor cries my neighbor starts and rubs his eyes he hurries yawning through the car and steps out to where the houses are this is the reason of our quest not wanton ly we break the rest of town and village nor do we lightly profane Knights sanctity what love commands the train fulfills and beautiful upon the hills are these our feet of burnished steel subtly and certainly I feel that Glenrock welcomes us to her and silent Ridgewood seems to stir and smile because she knows the train has brought her children back again we carry people home and so God speeds us we're so ere we go ho-ho-kus Waldwick Allendale lifts sleepy heads to give us hail and ramsey mawa Suffern stand houses that wistfully demand a father son some human thing that this the midnight rain may bring the trains that travel in the day they hurry folks to work or play the midnight train is slow and old but of it let this thing be told to its high honor be it said it carries people home to bed my cottage lamp shines white and clear God bless the train that brought me here 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 the light of ownership is fled he boughs his little head ah cruel time to kill that splendid thrill then in his tear-dimmed eyes new lights arise he drops his treasured pennies on the ground they rolled and bound and scattered rest now with what zest he runs to find his errant wealth again so unto men doth God depriving that he may bestow fame health and money go but that they may newfound be newly sweet yay and his feet sit waiting us to their concealment bid all they are lovers whom his love hath hid lo comfort blooms on pain and peace on strife and gain on loss what is the key to everlasting life a blood-stained cross stars for the Reverend James J Daly SJ bright stars yellow stars flashing through the air or you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair as she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven to gay stars little stars you are little eyes eyes of baby angels playing in the skies now and then a winged child turns his merry face down toward the spinning world what a funny place Jesus Christ came from the cross Christ received my soul in each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole for great iron spikes there were red and never dry michael plucked from the cross and set them in the sky Christ troupe Mary's Guard God's own men draw your swords and strike it hell and strike again every steal born spark that flies where God's battles are flashes past the face of God and is a star old poets for Robert Carr tez 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 serene and good and strong and they would not sigh and tremble and vex me with a song the pleasantest sort of poet is the poet who's old and wise with an old white beard and wrinkles about his kind old eyes for these young flibbertigibbet surviving their hours away they won't be still like honest men and listened to what you say the young poet screams forever about his sex and his soul but the old man listens and smokes his pipe and polishes its bowl there should be a club for poets who have come to 70-year they should sit in the Great Hall drinking red wine and gold and beer they would shuffle in of an evening each one to his cushioned seat and there would be mellow talking and silence rich and sweet there is no peace to be taken with poets who are young for they worry about the wars to be fought and the songs that must be sung but the old man knows that he's in his chair and that God's on his throne in the sky so he sits by the fire in comfort and he lets the world spin by in section 1 of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer two of trees and other poems by choice Kilmer this LibriVox recording is in the public domain delicatessen why is that wanton gossip Fame so dumb about dis 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 land has come a prize rich spices from the Orient and fruit that new Italian skies and figs that ripen by the sea in Smyrna nuts from hot Brazil strange pungent meats from Germany and currants from a Grecian Hill he is the Lord of goodly things that make the poor man's table gay yet of his worth no minstrel sings and on his tomb there is no Bey perhaps he lives and dies unpressed this trafficker and humble sweets because his little shops are raised by thousands in the city streets yet stars and greater numbers shine and violets and millions grow and they had many a Golden Lion or sung as Sept reach out must know perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes his wrinkled shrewd pathetic face his shop and all he sells and buys are desperately commonplace well it is true he has no sword to dangle at his booted knees he leans across a slab of bored and draws his life and slices cheese he never heard of chivalry he longs for no heroic times he thinks of pickles olives tea and dollars nickels cents and dimes his world has narrow walls it seems by counters is his soul confined his wares are all his hopes and dreams they are the fabric of his mind yet in a room above the store there is a woman and the child pattered it just now across the floor the shop man looked at him and smiled for once he thrilled with high romance entombed to love his eager voice like any Cavalier of France he wooed the maiden of his choice and now deep in his weary heart our sacred flames that Whitely burn he has of heavens grace apart who loves who is beloved in turn and when the long day's work is done how slow the Lydon minutes ran home with his wife and little son he is no huckster but a man and there are those who grasp his hand who drink with him and wish him well o when no drear and lonely land shall he who honors friendship dwell and in his little shop who knows what bitter games of war are played why daily on each corner grows a foe to rob him of his trade he fights and for his fireside sake he fights for clothing and for bread Lance's of his foe men make a steely halo round his head he decks his window artfully he haggles over paltry sums in this strange field his war must be and by such blows his triumph comes what if no trumpet sounds to call his armored legions to his side what if – no ancestral Hall he comes in all a Victor's pride a scene shall never fit the deed grotesquely wanders come to pass The Fool shall mount an Arab speed and Jesus ride upon an S this man has home and child and wife and battle set for every day this man has God and love and life beasts and all else shall pass away o carpenter of Nazareth whose mother was a village maid shall we thy children blow our breath in scorn on any humble trade have pity on our foolishness and give us eyes that we may see beneath the shop man's clumsy dress the splendor of humanity servant girl and grocer's boy her lips remark was oh you kid her soul spoke thus I know it did Oh king of realms of endless joy my own my golden grocer's boy I am a princess forced to dwell within a lonely kitchen cell while you go dashing through the land with loveliness on every hand your whistle strikes my eager ears like music of the quiring spheres the mighty earth grows faint and reels beneath your thundering wagon wheels how keenly perilously sweet to cling upon that swaying seat how happy she who by your side may share the splendors of that ride if you will not take my hand and bear me off across the land then traveler from arkady remain a while and comfort me what other Maiden can you find so young and delicate in kind her lips remark was oh you kid her soul spoke thus I know it did wealth for a line 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 small brushes give you birth nothing so exquisite as that slight hand could Raphael or Leonardo trace nor could the poets know in fairy land about changing wonder of your lyric face I would possess a host of lovely things but I am poor and such joys may not be so God who lifts the poor in humbles Kings sent loveliness itself to dwell with me Morton when I am tired of earnest men intense and keen and sharp bend clever pursuing Fame with brush sharpen or counting metal discs forever then from the halls of shadow land beyond the trackless purple see the old Morton's ghost comes back to stand beside my desk and talk to me still on his delicate pale face a quizzical thin smile is showing his cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace his kind blue eyes are gay and glowing he wears a brilliant huge cravat a suit to match his soft gray hair a rakish stick a knowing hat a manner of life and debonair how good that he who always knew that being lovely was a duty should have gold halls to wander through and shoot himself inhabit Beauty howl like his old unselfish way to leave those halls of splendid mirth and the comfort those condemned to stay upon the doll in sombre earth some men ask what cruel chance made Morton's life so sad a story Martin why he exiled romance and wore an overcoat of glory a flick of sunlight in the street a horse a book a girl who smiled such visions made each moment sweet for this receptive ancient child because it was old Morton's lot to be not make a decoration shall we then scorn him having not his genius of appreciation rich joy and love he got and gave his heart was Mary as his dress pile laurel wreaths upon his grave who did not gain but was success the apartment house severe against the pleasant arc of sky at the great stone box is cruelly displayed the street becomes more dreary from its shade and vagrant breezes touch its walls and I hear sullen convicts in their chains might lie our slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade col worse than folly as their labor maid who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high yet as I look I see a woman's face gleam from a window far above the street this is a house of homes a sacred place by human passion made divinely sweet how all the building thrills with sudden grace beneath the magic of love's golden feet end a section two of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer section three of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section three as winds that blow against a star now by what whim of wanton chance do radiant eyes no sombre days and feet that shod and light should dance walk weary and laborious ways but raise from heaven white and whole may penetrate the gloom of Earth and tears but nourish in your soul the glory of celestial mirth the darts of toil and sorrow sent against your peaceful beauty are as foolish and as impotent as winds that blow against a star Saint it's within the broken Vatican the murdered Pope is lying dead the soldiers of valerian their evil hands are wet and red unarmed unmoved st. Lawrence waits his cassock is his only mail the troops of hell have burst the gates but Christ is Lord he shall prevail they have coppiced him with steel they spit upon his gentle face he smiles and bleeds nor will reveal the church's hidden treasure place ah faithful Stuart worthy Knight well half out done behold thy fee since thou hath fought the goodly fight a martyr's death dis fixed for thee st. Lawrence pray for us to bear the faith which glorifies thy name st. Lawrence pray for us to share the wounds of Love's consuming flame to a young poet who killed himself when you had played with life a space and made a drink and lust and sing you flung it back into God's face and thought you did a noble thing lo I have lived and loved you said and sung to fools to dull to hear me now for a cool and grassy bed with violets in blossom near me well rest is good for a weary feet although they ran for no great prize and violets are very sweet although their roots are in your eyes but hark to what the earthworm's say who share with you your muddy haven the fight was on you ran away you are a coward and a craven the rug is ruined where you bled it was a dirty way to die to put a bullet through your head and make a silly woman cry you could not vex the merry stars nor make them heed you dead or living not all your puny anger Mars irresistible forgiving yes Scott forgives and men forget and you're forgiven and forgotten you might be gaily sinning yet then quick and fresh instead of rotten and when you think of love and fame and all that might have come to pass then don't you feel a little shame and don't you think you were an ass Memorial Day Dolce eped decorum essed the bugle echos shrill and sweet but not of war it sings today the road is rhythmic with the feet of mitad 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 they're grateful children learn their stress who lie beneath desaad 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 the Rosary not on the loot nor Harper many strings shall all men praise the master of all song our life is brief one saith an artist long and skilled must be the laureates of Kings silent o lips that are foolish things rest awkward fingers striking all notes wrong how from your toil shall issue white and strong music like that God's chosen poet sings there is one harp the any hand can play and from its strings what harmonies arise there is one song that any mouth can say a song that lingers win all singing dies when on their beads are mothers children pray immortal music charms the graceful skies end of section 3 section 4 of trees and other poems by choice Kilmer this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 4 vision for a lien 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 God's not of Eros with love arrows leighton jupiter thundering death sorrow Juno his white-breasted Queen yet have I seen all of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden to certain poets now is the rhymers honest trade a thing for scornful laughter made the merchants 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 posy 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 use snails that crawl along his path why what has God our man to do with wet amorphous things like you this thing alone you have achieved because of you it is believed that all who earned their bread by rhyme are like yourselves exuding slime Oh cease to write for very shame air all men's spit upon our name take up your needles drop your pin and leave the poet's craft to men love's Lantern 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 miles of night that stretch relentless in my way my lantern burns serene and white an unexhausted cup of day o golden lights and lights like wine how dim your boasted splinters are behold this little lamp of mine it is more star like than a star sight Alexis patron of beggar's 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 a buttercup bright and our shrine is a bank Asad but still we share Saint Alexis's care the vagabond of God they gave him a home in purple Rome and princess for his bride but he rode away on his wedding day down the Tiber 'he's rushing tide and he came to land on the asian strand where the heathen people dwell as a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed and he saved their souls from hell bowed with years in pain he came back again to his father's dwelling place there was none to see who this trip might be for they knew not his bearded face but his father said give him drink and bread and a couch underneath the stair so Alexis crept to his hole and slept but he might not linger there for when night came down on the seven hilde town and the Emperor hurried in saying lo I hear that a site is near who will cleanse us of our sin then they looked in vain where the Saint had lain for his soul had fled a far from his fleshy home he had gone to Rome where the gold-paved highways are we who begged for bread as we daily tread country lane and City Street let us kneel and pray of the broad highway to the Saint with the vagrant feet our ultralight is a buttercup of bright and our shrine is a bank of sod but still we share st. Alexis's care the vagabond of God folly for a kay-kay what distant mountains thrill and globin eath Our Lady Follies 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 night 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 Jahan and broke the ranks of hell with her and folly smiles shone brightly on Christ's plaything brother juniper our minds are troubled and defiled by study in a weary school Oh 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 Follies face again end of section 4 section 5 of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 5 madness for Sara Teasdale the lonely form 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 an orb and crown held court with splendid cheer today he tears his purple gown and moans and shrieks and fear not ahran bars nor flashing Spears nor land nor sky nor see nor loves 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 poet's vane is the chiming of forgotten bells that the wind sways above a ruined shrine Vayner his voice in whom no longer dwells hunger that craves immortal bread and wine light songs we breathe that perish with our breath out of our lips that have not kissed the rod they shall not live who have not tasted death they only sing who are struck dumb by God 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 splendor shining through its fail 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 to a black bird and his mate who died in the spring for Kenton an iron hand has still the throats the throbbed with loud and rhythmically and Damned the flood of silver notes that drenched the world in melody the blossomy apple bowels are yearning for their wild choristers returning but no swift wings flash through the tree ye that were glad and fleet and strong shall silence take you in her net and shall death quell that radiant song whose echo thrills the metal yet burst a frail web about you clinging and charm death's cruel heart with singing till with strange tears his eyes are wet the sentient morning of the year is old and stale now ye are gone no friendly songs the children here among the bushes on the lawn when babies wander out a maying will ye they're barred safar be straying on him and by you what is the dawn nae since she loved he cannot die above the Stars his set your nest through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly and in the trees of heaven rest and little children in their dreaming shall see your soft black plumage gleaming and smile while you're clear music blessed the fourth is Shepard for Thomas Walsh on nights like this the huddled sheep are like white clouds upon the grass and Mary herzman 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 nearby of sheep and men of gentle will I lean upon my broken crook and dream of sheep bang grass send min-ho 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 mainly serve its meanest in I tramped the courtyard stones in grief while sleep takes man and beast to her and every cloud is calling thief and every star calls murderer the hand of God is sure and strong nor shall a man for ever flee the bitter punishment of wrong the wrath of God is over me with ashen bread and wine of Tears shall I be Sullust in my pain I wear through black and endless years upon my brow the Mark of Cain 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 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 wicked music I have heard but now the clouds with singing rock as if the sky were turning bird o blinding light o blinding light burned through my heart with sweetest pain whole flaming song most loudly bright consume away my deadly stain the stable glows against the sky and who are these that throng the way my three old comrades hastened by and The 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 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 Oh Lamb of God end of section 5 section of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer this LibriVox recording is in the public domain section 6 Easter the air is like a butterfly with frail blue wings the happy earth looks at the sky and sings Mount Alvin coughed serene he stands with mist serenely crowned and draws a cloak of trees about his breast and Thunder roars but cannot break his rest and from his ragged face the tipis found he does not he the angry lightnings wound the raging blizzard is his harmless guests and human life is but a passing jest to him who sees time spend the years around but fragile souls in skyyy reaches find high vantage points and view him from afar how low he seems to the ascended mind how brief he seems were all things endless are this little playmate of the mighty wind this young companion of an ancient star the house with nobody in it whenever I walked to sufferin along the eerie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black I suppose I passed it a hundred times but I always stop for a minute and look at the house the tragic house the house with nobody in it I have never seen a haunted house but I hear there are such things that they hold the talk of spirits their mirth and sorrowing 'z I know this house isn't haunted and I wish it were I do for it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or to this house on the road to sufferin needs a dozen panes of glass and somebody ought to weed the walk and take a sight to the grass it needs new paint and the shingles and the vines should be trimmed and tied but what it needs that most of all is some people living inside if I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be and I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free now a new house standing empty with staring window in door looks idle perhaps and foolish like a hat on its block in the store but there's nothing mournful about it it cannot be sad and lone for the lack of something within it that it has never known but a house that has done what a house should do a house that has sheltered life that has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife a house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet it's the saddest sight when it's left alone that ever your eyes could meet so whenever I go to sufferin along the eerie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters falling apart before I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart Dave Lily 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 fish there many a summer day some 20 years ago and I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so there was a man Dave Lily who lived on the north Adams Road and he spent all his time fishing while his neighbours reaped and sowed he was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire Hills I think and when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink well dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much they have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such but I always liked Dave Lily he was pleasant as you could wish he was shiftless and good-for-nothing but he certainly could fish the other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown and I came to the brook I mentioned and I stopped on the bridge and sat down I looked at the blackened water with its little specks of white and I heard it rippled and whisper in the still of the summer night and after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel the presence of someone near me and I heard the hum of a reel and the water was churned and broken and something was brought to land by a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand I scrambled down to the brook side and hunted all about there wasn't a sign of a fisherman there wasn't a sign of a trout but I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak and I got a whiff of tobacco like Lily used to smoke it's 15 years they tell me since anyone fished that brook and there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook but before the Sun is risen and after the moon is set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lily's ghosts to get I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye and leave it down by the hollow oak where Lily's ghosts went by I meant to go up the hillside and try to find his grave and put some flowers on it but this will be better for Dave alarm clocks when dawn strides out to wake a dewy form across green fields and yellow hills of hey the little twittering birds laugh in his way in boys triumphantly on his shiny horn he bears a sort of flame but not to harm the wakened life that feels his quickening sway and barnyard voices shrilling it is day he take by His grace a new and alien charm but in the city like a wounded thing that limps to cover from the angry chase he steals down streets were sickly arclights sing and Wan Li mock his young and shameful face and tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring in many a high and dreary sleeping place waverly 1814 to 1914 win on a novels newly printed page we find a maudlin eulogy of sin and read of ways that harlots wander in and of sick souls that wry than helpless rage are when romance be speckled and sage taps on her desk and bits the class begin to con the problems that have always been perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage then in what roads of Honor habited the Laurel wizard of the North appears who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead made roses mirth and Flora's noble tears and formed that shining legion at whose head rise Waverley triumphant over the years end of section six end of trees and other poems by Joyce Kilmer this recording was done by Phil Chenevert in December of 2012

1 thought on “Trees and Other Poems | Joyce Kilmer | Poetry | Audio Book | English

  1. Trees and Other Poems | Joyce Kilmer | Poetry | Audio Book | English

    1: [00:00:00] – 1 – Trees * To My Mother * The Twelve Forty-Five * Pennies * Stars * Old Poets

    2: [00:11:09] – 2 – Delicatessen * Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy * Wealth * Martin * The Apartment House

    3: [00:21:02] – 3 – As Winds That Blow Against A Star * St. Laurence * To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself * Memorial Day * The Rosary

    4: [00:26:59] – 4 – Vision * To Certain Poets * Love's Lantern * St. Alexis * Folly

    5: [00:33:37] – 5 – Madness * Poets * Citizen of the World * To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring * The Fourth Shepherd

    6: [00:41:17] – 5 – Easter * Mount Houvenkopf * The House with Nobody in It * Dave Lilly * Alarm Clocks * Waverley

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