Joyce Kilmer

He's like the most famous fucking poet guy.

Not Joyce Kilmer.

No.

By the

Well, exactly.

I just need to say that that was by Joyce Kilmer.

Yeah.

And his

poem, Trees, which is

a fantastic poem.

Now, can you find any Joyce Kilmer places to visit in England?

Um, I don't, I didn't, I didn't look.

Copyright 1919, George H. Doran Company.

By Joyce Kilmer, Sergeant, Infantry.

Killed in action July 30th, 1918.

Read by John Greenman for Librivox.org.

Taps sounding in distance.

Two.

There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this spot of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band St. Michael's sword darts through the air And touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there His stalwart sons And Patrick, Bridget, and Columbkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael's blood runs And up to heaven's doorway floats From the woods called Rouge Bouquet A delicate sound of bugle notes That softly say Farewell, farewell Taps sounding in distance L'Envoi Comrades true, born anew Peace to you Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning star Brave and dear Shield us here Farewell Joyce Kilmer, Sergeant, Infantry Killed in action July 30th, 1918 End of poem This recording is in the public domain.

Goodbye by Anonymous.

it's a hard pull for you buddy and ofttimes it looks damned blue square your chin and vow to win and play the game clean through for there's a great time coming buddy time worth waiting for when culture's done and all is one and the boys come home from war oh she'll be waiting buddy and the love-light in her eye will shine with joy as her big boy goes proudly marching by it's a hard road for you buddy But it's more than worth the game to buck all fears, So mother's tears will be joy, not shame.

The Wood Called Rouge Bouquet Copyright 1918 Charles Scribner's and Sons Copyright 1919 George H. Dorr and Company By Joyce Kilmer Sergeant Infantry Killed in Action July 30, 1918 Read by John Greenman for LibriVox.org The wood called Rouge Bouquet, dedicated to the memory of nineteen members of Company E, 165th Infantry, who made the supreme sacrifice at Rouge Bouquet, Forest of Parois, France, March 7th, read by the chaplain at the funeral, the refrain echoing the music of taps from a distant grove.

one in the woods they call rouge bouquet there is a new-made prey never a spade or pick yet covered by earth ten meters there lie many fighting men dead in their youthful prime never to laugh or live again or taste of the summer time for death came flying through the air and stopped his flight at the dug-out stair touched his prey and left them there clay to clay he hid their bodies stealthily in the soil of the land they sought to free and fled away now over the grave abrupt and clear three volleys ring and perhaps their brave young spirits hear go to sleep

Tyler Reddick here from 2311 Racing.

Taps sounding in distance.

Two.

there is on earth no worthier grave to hold the bodies of the brave than this spot of pain pride where they nobly fought nobly died never fear but in the skies saints angels stand smiling with their holy eyes on this new-come band st michael's sword darts through the air and touches the aureole on his hair as he sees them stand saluting there his stalwart sons and patrick bridget and columbcille rejoice that in veins of warriors still the gale's blood runs and up to heaven's doorway floats from the woods called rouge bouquet a delicate sound of bugle notes that softly say farewell farewell taps sounding in distance comrades true born anew peace to you your souls shall be where the heroes are and your memory shine like the morning star brave and dear shield us here farewell joyce kilmer sergeant infantry killed in action july 30th 1918 end of poem this recording is in the public domain good-bye good-bye good-bye good-bye good-bye we're on the seas for france we're on our way to make them pay the piper for the dance to starboard and to port our paint splotched convoys toss grim thunderbolts in rainbow garb we jam a path across our guns are slugged and set to smack the u-boat's eye god help the hun that tries his luck good-by good-by good-by good-by good-by good-by good-by the decks are deep with men we're going out to god knows what we'll be back god knows when old friends are at our sides old songs drift out to sea oh it is good to go to war in such a company the sun is on the waves that race to meet the sky where strange new shores reach out to us good-bye good-bye good-bye good-bye good-bye good-bye a long and weary while through all the drab and empty days remember us and smile our good ship shoulders on along a lane of foam and every turn the screw goes round is farther still from home we'll miss the things we left the more the white miles fly so keep them till we come again good bye good bye good bye anonymous end of poem this recording is in the public domain the fields of the marne written by frank carbaugh sergeant infantry written while lying wounded in hospital died august 1918 read by john greenman for librivox.org the fields of the marne the fields of the marne are growing green the river murmurs on and on no more the hail of mitrailleuse the cannon from the hills are gone the herder leads the sheep afield where grasses grow o'er broken blade and toil-worn women till the soil or human mould in sunny glade the splintered shell and bayonet are lost in crumbling village wall no sniper scans the rim of hills no sentry hears the night-bird call from blood-wet soil and sunken trench the flowers bloom in summer light and farther down the vale beyond the peasant smiles are sad yet bright The wounded marn is growing green, The gash of hun no longer smarts, Democracy is born again, But what about the troubled hearts? a nurse's prayer by thomas f coakley lieutenant chaplain a nurse's prayer o lord i must not cry and yet mine eyes contain such floods of scalding tears that they will never dry descending soft as rain through all the coming years cor jesu i must weep when i behold the sight these men who fought and bled who moan and cannot sleep their souls so snowy white the wounded and the dead Lines on Leaving a Little Town Where We Rested by Russell Lord, Corporal, F.A.

Read by John Greenman for LibriVox.org Lines on Leaving a Little Town Where We Rested we with the war ahead you who have held the line laughing have broken bread and taken wine we cannot speak your tongue we cannot fully know things hid beneath your smile four years ago things which have given us grimly a common debt now that we take the field we won't forget Russell Lord, Corporal, F.A. poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of france reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance over them the skylark sings his lilting liquid tune poppies in the wheat fields and all the world in june poppies in the wheat-fields on the road to mont thiers hark the spiteful rattle where the masked machine-guns play over them the shrapnel song greets the summer morn poppies in the wheat-fields but ah the fields are torn see the stalwart yankee lads never ones to blench poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench leaping down the furrows with eager boyish tread through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun broken bruised and trampled but the bitter day is won yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine with their poppies in their helmets the front files hold the line poppies in the wheat-field how still beside them lie scattered forms that stir not when the star-shells burst on high Gently bending o'er them Beneath the moon's soft glance, Poppies of the wheat-fields On the ransomed hills of France.

This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

Number two, The Day After Christmas by Joyce Kilmer.

of course people still ride on the elevated railways but not the people who used to be taken over by their mothers from jersey city on the courtland street ferry about once every month and then up sixth avenue by the elevated en route for the shops these people now know the swift and monotonous tube train instead of the rakish ferry-boat the dull subway instead of the stimulating elevated railway and even if they knelt upon the seats of the subway car their rubbers projecting into the aisles and their faces pressed against the windows they would see only blank walls and dismal stations instead of other people's christmas trees these evanescent bits of glory lent special delight to aerial journeyings for weeks after christmas for in defiance of the twelfth night convention certain citizens were wont to keep their christmas trees in place until february and in the opinion of the tenants of the third stories of the tenements apartment houses is the more courteous word which bordered the elevated the place of the christmas tree was close up against the front window where all the world could enjoy its green and gold and red like nearly all genuine vulgar customs vulgar is used in its most honorable sense this habit of showing the public the home's chief splendor was or is for undoubtedly furs dressed for holiday still brighten some lower sixth avenue windows based on generous courtesy it was not possible for mr tenement to keep open flat so to speak at christmas time to summon all sixth avenue in to partake of a bowl of wassail that steamed upon his gas range but he performed all the hospitality that his ungentle residence allowed he placed his bit of greenwood with its cardboard angel its red paper bells and its strings of tinsel where it would give to the greatest possible number the same delight that it gave to its owner it is you observe in your own psychological way the rogers group principle your grandmother put going for the cows you remember on the marble top of the walnut table by the window in the front parlor The Nottingham lace curtains were parted just above the head of the boy who was urging the dog after the woodchuck, and everybody who went up or down Maple Avenue got a good view of that masterpiece of realism.

Therein your grandmother showed truer courtesy than did you when you put Rodin's Le Baiser in that niche above the second landing of your stairway.

Grainger, for the ones who get it done.

these things i said are natural fruits of after christmas meditations and the christmas tree remains although the gifts that surround it have been taken away it is a pleasanter sight than it was yesterday because it is already a beautiful old friend a friend to whom we are grateful it does not look ridiculous because its great day is gone as for example a firecracker looks ridiculous on july five for christmas is more than a day it is a season of which december twenty five is only the commencement and as the christmas tree seems pleasanter and more friendly when some of its needles have formed little green aromatic heaps on the carpet and when the china angel and two or three of the red glass balls have been taken down for the baby to play with so does the christmas season seem pleasanter and more friendly when its first great feast and pageant has come to its joyous close and become a part of time's rich treasury of golden days End of number 2 Number 3 of A Christmas Miscellany by Various This LibriVox recording is in the public domain.

Number 3 The Gentle Art of Christmas Giving by Joyce Kilmer If a dentist stuck a bit of holly in his cap and went through the streets on Christmas morning, his buzzing drill over his shoulder and his forceps in his hand, stopping at the houses of his friends to give their jaws free treatment, meanwhile trolling out lusty yuletide staves, if he were to do this, I say, it would be said of him, among other things, that he was celebrating Christmas in a highly original manner.

Undoubtedly, there would be many other adjectives applied to his manner of generosity, adjectives applied, for instance, by the children whom around their gaily festooned tree he surprised with his gift of expert treatment.

A fistful of nickels disappeared before I finally found an importer who knew that Voorhees lived at 1330 North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills.

turned onto a gravel driveway and crunched to a stop in front of a house which was redwood and glass, and guess where the front door is? The landscaping consisted of a mess of severely clipped trees that even Joyce Kilmer would have turned his back on.

When I leaned against the front doorbell, a slew of Chinese gongs rang someplace deep inside, and I was ready for at least two men's shoes when the door eased open noiselessly.

A collection of beautiful things that stood five and a half feet above the threshold.