 | [Poems by Kilmer in] Memories of my son Sergeant Joyce Kilmer |  |
17
TO A. K. K.
August the fourth
Nineteen Hundred and Eleven.
Now the English larks are singing,
And the English meadows flinging
Scarlet flags of blazing poppies to the fragrant summer air,
And from every tower and steeple
All the wondering English people
Hear a chime of fairy music, though no bell-ringers are there.
And the English meadows flinging
Scarlet flags of blazing poppies to the fragrant summer air,
And from every tower and steeple
All the wondering English people
Hear a chime of fairy music, though no bell-ringers are there.
What has caused this jubilation?
Days ago the coronation
Went with jewelled pomp and splendour to the country of the past.
Is the land some Saint's day hailing?
Or has some tall ship gone sailing
Through the hostile fleet to triumph, with the Union at her mast?
Days ago the coronation
Went with jewelled pomp and splendour to the country of the past.
Is the land some Saint's day hailing?
Or has some tall ship gone sailing
Through the hostile fleet to triumph, with the Union at her mast?
Nay, it is no war-like glory,
Nor pale saint, of ancient story,
That has made the island blossom into beauty rare and new.
We in this sea-severed nation,
Share with England our elation,
As we keep this feast, your birthday, and are glad with love for you!
Nor pale saint, of ancient story,
That has made the island blossom into beauty rare and new.
We in this sea-severed nation,
Share with England our elation,
As we keep this feast, your birthday, and are glad with love for you!
| [Poems by Kilmer in] Memories of my son Sergeant Joyce Kilmer | |