(For Thomas Walsh)
I
On nights like this the huddled sheepAre like white clouds upon the grass,And merry herdsmen guard their sleepAnd chat and watch the big stars pass.It is a pleasant thing to lieUpon the meadow on the hillWith kindly fellowship near byOf sheep and men of gentle will.I lean upon my broken crookAnd dream of sheep and grass and men —O shameful eyes that cannot lookOn any honest thing again!On bloody feet I clambered downAnd 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,While sleep takes man and beast to her.And every cloud is calling "Thief!"And every star calls "Murderer!"
II
The hand of God is sure and strong,Nor shall a man forever fleeThe bitter punishment of wrong.The wrath of God is over me!With ashen bread and wine of tearsShall I be solaced in my pain.I wear through black and endless yearsUpon my brow the mark of Cain.
III
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 doorIs shut to you, come here instead.See, I have cleansed my stable floorAnd 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 takeThe bounty of a child of care.
IV
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 flockWhat winged music I have heard!But now the clouds with singing rockAs if the sky were turning bird.O blinding Light, O blinding Light!Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.O flaming Song, most loudly bright,Consume away my deadly stain!
V
The stable glows against the sky,And who are these that throng the way?My three old comrades hasten byAnd 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!
VI
O Whiteness, whiter than the fleeceOf new-washed sheep on April sod!O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace,O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!
The air is like a butterflyWith frail blue wings.The happy earth looks at the skyAnd sings.
Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned,And draws a cloak of trees about his breast.The thunder roars but cannot break his restAnd from his rugged face the tempests bound.He does not heed the angry lightning's wound,The raging blizzard is his harmless guest,And human life is but a passing jestTo him who sees Time spin the years around.But fragile souls, in skyey reaches findHigh vantage-points and view him from afar.How low he seems to the ascended mind,How brief he seems where all things endless are;This little playmate of the mighty windThis young companion of an ancient star.
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie trackI 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 minuteAnd look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.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 two.This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paidI'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 beAnd I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and 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 loneFor 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,Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie trackI never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.
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,And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road,And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors 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 Lilly, 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 WilliamstownAnd 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 flecks of whiteAnd I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feelThe 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 landBy a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.I scrambled down to the brookside 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 oakAnd I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.It's fifteen 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 has risen and after the moon has setI know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of ryeAnd leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his graveAnd put some flowers on it — but this will be better for Dave.
When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farmAcross green fields and yellow hills of hayThe little twittering birds laugh in his wayAnd poise triumphant on his shining arm.He bears a sword of flame but not to harmThe wakened life that feels his quickening swayAnd barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!"Take by his grace a new and alien charm.But in the city, like a wounded thingThat limps to cover from the angry chase,He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,And wanly mock his young and shameful face;And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ringIn many a high and dreary sleeping place.
1814-1914
When, on a novel's newly printed pageWe find a maudlin eulogy of sin,And read of ways that harlots wander in,And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,Taps on her desk and bids the class beginTo con the problems that have always beenPerplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;Then in what robes of honor habitedThe laureled wizard of the North appears!Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,And formed that shining legion at whose headRides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!
The following biographical information is taken from the 1917 edition of Jessie B. Rittenhouse's anthology of Modern Verse.
Kilmer, Joyce. Born at New Brunswick, New Jersey, December 6, 1886, and graduated at Columbia University in 1908. After a short period of teaching he became associated with Funk and Wagnalls Company, where he remained from 1909 to 1912, when he assumed the position of literary editor of "The Churchman". In 1913 Mr. Kilmer became a member of the staff of the "New York Times", a position which he still occupies. His volumes of poetry are: "A Summer of Love", 1911, and "Trees, and Other Poems", 1914.
Kilmer died in France in 1918, and also published another volume, "Main Street and Other Poems", 1917, as well as individual poems, essays, etc.