Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

Joyce Kilmer (December 6, 1886-July 30, 1918) was an American poet; his best-known work is "Trees". The poem is notable for its anthropomorphism: the tree in the poem presses its mouth to the earth's breast and looks at God and raises its leafy arms to pray. The poem was given a musical setting that was quite popular in the 1940s and 1950s.

Kilmer was killed in action by a sniper during World War I and is buried in the Oise-Aisne Cemetery, Fere-en-Tardenois, France.

The poems are by default sorted according to volume, but you can also choose to sort them alphabetically or by page views.

First Line	Comments
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)	2 Comments
(For My Mother)	2 Comments
(For Shaemas O Sheel)	1 Comment
(For Thomas Augustine Daly)
1814-1914
"Dulce et decorum est"
(For A. K. K.)
(For Alden March)
(For Aline)	1 Comment
(For Aline)
(For Aline)
(For Aline)
(For Aline)
(For Aline)
(For Cecil Chesterton)	3 Comments
(For Edward J. Wheeler)
(For Eleanor Rogers Cox)	1 Comment
(For Helen Parry Eden)
(For John Bunker)
(For Katherine Bregy)	4 Comments
(For Kenton)
(For Louise Imogen Guiney)
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)	49 Comments
(For My Mother)	1 Comment
(For Richardson Little Wright)	1 Comment
(For Robert Cortez Holliday)	2 Comments
(For S. M. E.)	1 Comment
(For S. M. L.)	2 Comments
(For Sara Teasdale)
(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)	1 Comment
(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)
(For the Rev. James B. Dollard)	2 Comments
(For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.)	1 Comment
(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.)	1 Comment
(For Thomas Walsh)
(From the French of Emile Verhaeren)
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)
A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand
Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"
I
In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
My hands were stained with blood, my heart was
No longer of Him be it said
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings	1 Comment
Now is the rhymer's honest trade
Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned,
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky	1 Comment
The air is like a butterfly
The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering
There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
We who beg for bread as we daily tread	1 Comment
When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm	1 Comment
When I am tired of earnest men,	1 Comment
When you had played with life a space	3 Comments
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track	20 Comments
Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously,	1 Comment
Why is that wanton gossip Fame
Within the broken Vatican	1 Comment