Joyce Kilmer Quotes.
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.
What matters Death, if Freedom be not dead?
No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled.
Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread
To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled.
No flags are fair, if Freedom’s flag be furled.
Who fights for Freedom, goes with joyful tread
To meet the fires of Hell against him hurled.
Things have a terrible permanence when people die.
I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.
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.
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
and the songs that must be sung.
I believed in the Catholic position, the Catholic view of ethics and aesthetics, for a long time. But I wanted something not intellectual, some conviction not mental – in fact I wanted faith.
They 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.
The only reason a road is good as every wanderer knows / Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which one goes
The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree
But only God can make a tree
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast.
It 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.
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.
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet,
There is a new-made grave today,
Built by never a spade nor pick,
Yet covered with earth ten meteres thick.
There lie many fighting men.
Dead in their youthful prime.
There is a new-made grave today,
Built by never a spade nor pick,
Yet covered with earth ten meteres thick.
There lie many fighting men.
Dead in their youthful prime.