The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light. — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings. — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought and the songs… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
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… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
I suppose I passed it a hundred times, But I always stop for a minute. And look at the house, the tragic house, The… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
At present, I am a poet trying to be a soldier. To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing nowadays, except in… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light. — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
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… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
I think that I shall never scan A tree as lovely as a man. . . . . A tree depicts divinest plan, But… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to… — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
There is no place in which to hide when Age comes seeking for his bride. — Joyce Kilmer Copy Share Image
