Quotes from Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never scan A tree as lovely as a man. . . . . A tree depicts divinest plan, But God himself lives in a man.

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.

The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings.

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

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.

When faith did come, it came, I think, by way of my little paralyzed daughter. Her lifeless hands led me; I think her tiny feet still know beautiful paths.

Poems are made by fools like me But only God can make a tree.

Poems are made by fools like me,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...

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's 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.

The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light.

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

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong, For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along. And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows, Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's 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.

When darkness hovers over earth And day gives place to night, Then lovers see the Milky Way Gleam mystically bright, And calling it the Way of Love They hail it with delight.

Trees (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) 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; 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

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.

But only God can make a tree.

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.

There is no place in which to hide when Age comes seeking for his bride.

Things have a terrible permanence when people die.

For nothing keeps a poet In his high singing mood Like unappeasable hunger For unattainable food.

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.