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Joyce Kilmer Quotes (1886-1918)
Poet
About Joyce Kilmer
Alfred Joyce Kilmer (6 December 1886 β 30 July 1918) was an American journalist and poet.
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βHe 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 bay.β
That make the poor man's table gay,
Yet of his worth no minstrel sings
And on his tomb there is no bay.β
βHer soul's light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.β
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.β
βThere is no strange and distant place
That is not gladdened by His face.
And every nation kneels to hail
The Splendour shining through Its veil.β
That is not gladdened by His face.
And every nation kneels to hail
The Splendour shining through Its veil.β
βAn iron hand has stilled the throats
That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
That drenched the world in melody.β
That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
That drenched the world in melody.β
βI have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden,
Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen,
Yet have I seen
All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.β
Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen,
Yet have I seen
All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.β
βAt the foot of the Cross on Calvary
Three soldiers sat and diced,
And one of them was the Devil
And he won the Robe of Christ.β
Three soldiers sat and diced,
And one of them was the Devil
And he won the Robe of Christ.β
βThere 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.β
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.β
βUnlock the door this evening
And let your gate swing wide,
Let all who ask for shelter
Come speedily inside.
What if your yard be narrow?
What if your house be small?
There is a Guest is coming
Will glorify it all.β
And let your gate swing wide,
Let all who ask for shelter
Come speedily inside.
What if your yard be narrow?
What if your house be small?
There is a Guest is coming
Will glorify it all.β
βGod be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky,
That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,
But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.β
That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,
But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.β
βO Mother of Good Counsel, lend
Intelligence to me!
Encompass me with wisdom,
Thou Tower of Ivory!
"This is the Man of Lies," she says,
"Disguised with fearful art:
He has the wounded hands and feet,
But not the wounded heart."β
Intelligence to me!
Encompass me with wisdom,
Thou Tower of Ivory!
"This is the Man of Lies," she says,
"Disguised with fearful art:
He has the wounded hands and feet,
But not the wounded heart."β
βThey say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.β
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.β
βFor 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.β
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.β
βO 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 shopman's clumsy dress
The splendor of humanity!β
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 shopman's clumsy dress
The splendor of humanity!β
βHe comes, and his face is sad and mild,
With thorns his head is crowned;
There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,
And in each hand a wound.
How can I tell, who am a fool,
If this be Christ or no?
Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!
Those eyes that love me so!β
With thorns his head is crowned;
There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,
And in each hand a wound.
How can I tell, who am a fool,
If this be Christ or no?
Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!
Those eyes that love me so!β
βHere is a shop of wonderment.
From every land has come a prize;
Rich spices from the Orient,
And fruit that knew Italian skies,
And figs that ripened by the sea
In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,
Strange pungent meats from Germany,
And currants from a Grecian hill.β
From every land has come a prize;
Rich spices from the Orient,
And fruit that knew Italian skies,
And figs that ripened by the sea
In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,
Strange pungent meats from Germany,
And currants from a Grecian hill.β
βAt present, I am a poet trying to be a soldier. To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing nowadays, except in so far as writing is the expression of something beautiful β¦ The only sort of book I care to write about the war is the sort people will read after the war is over β a century after it is over.β
Joyce Kilmer Quotes by Topic
Find exactly what you are looking for by browsing this categorized list of Joyce Kilmer quotes by topic.
Joyce Kilmer on Love 3 quotes
βThe song within your heart could never rise Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.β
Joyce Kilmer on Poetry about love 3 quotes
βThe song within your heart could never rise Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.β
Joyce Kilmer on Trees 2 quotes
βI think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. * * * * Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.β
Joyce Kilmer on Poetry
βI think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. β¦ Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.β
Joyce Kilmer on Warmness
βIt is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men.β
Joyce Kilmer on Jupiter (mythology)
βI have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, Yet have I seen All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.β
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Joyce Kilmer on Soldiers
Joyce Kilmer on Stars
βGod be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.β
Joyce Kilmer on Milky Way
βGod be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.β
Joyce Kilmer on Fire
βIt is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again.β
Joyce Kilmer on Prometheus
βIt is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again.β
Joyce Kilmer on Michael (archangel)
βDavid is the song upon God's lips, And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: And Gabriel's the breath of His command, But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand. The Ivory Tower is fair to see, And may her walls encompass me! But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, Saint Michael, show me how to fight!β
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Joyce Kilmer on Memorial Day
βThe bugle echoes shrill and sweet, But not of war it sings to-day. The road is rhythmic with the feet β Of men-at-arms who come to pray. The roses blossom white and red β On tombs where weary soldiers lie; Flags wave above the honored dead β And martial music cleaves the sky. Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel, β They kept the faith and fought the fight. Through flying lead and crimson steel β They plunged for Freedom and the Righteousness. May we, their grateful children, learn β Their strength, who lie beneath this sod, Who went through fire and death to earn β 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.β
About Joyce Kilmer
Alfred Joyce Kilmer (6 December 1886 β 30 July 1918) was an American journalist and poet.