 | [Poems by Kilmer in] Memories of my son Sergeant Joyce Kilmer |  |
To My Mother on Her Birthday, 1914
With a Book of Poems
Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold
(I know it does) a record of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over those boyish scrawls the years have rolled,
They might not bear the world's unfriendly gaze,
But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.
(I know it does) a record of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over those boyish scrawls the years have rolled,
They might not bear the world's unfriendly gaze,
But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.
Dearer to-day than in that happy time,
Comes your high praise to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chime
So unto you does this, my work belong.
Take, then, this little book of fragile rhyme;
Your heart will change it to authentic song.
Comes your high praise to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love's splendid chime
So unto you does this, my work belong.
Take, then, this little book of fragile rhyme;
Your heart will change it to authentic song.
| [Poems by Kilmer in] Memories of my son Sergeant Joyce Kilmer | |