Main Street and Other Poems(大街)

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Main Street and Other Poems

Main Street and Other

Poems

by Joyce Kilmer

Main Street and Other Poems

Main Street

(For S. M. L.)

I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, But it

isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be When it all was covered

over with a couple of feet of snow, And over the crisp and radiant road the

ringing sleighs would go.

Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing,

And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring; I like to think

of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, Because I think it is humaner

than any other street.

A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels,

And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels: It is dully conscious

of weight and speed and of work that never ends, But it cannot be human

like Main Street, and recognise its friends.

There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, And

twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. And there

wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy That Main Street

didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.

The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train They

make the weary city street reverberate with pain: But there is yet an echo

left deep down within my heart Of the music the Main Street cobblestones

made beneath a butcher's cart.

God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, That's the

path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a

Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown, But the only thing I think it is, is

Main Street, Heaventown.

Roofs

(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

Main Street and Other Poems

The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is

sweet, And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.

But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, And

to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam All up and

down the streets of the world and not to have a home: The tramp who slept

in your barn last night and left at break of day Will wander only until he

finds another place to stay.

A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead; Or else he'll

go into his tent when it is time for bed. He'll sit on the grass and take his

ease so long as the sun is high, But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep

away the sky.

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.

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 with tears. It's a

rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, But at last it

leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

Main Street and Other Poems

The Snowman in the Yard

(For Thomas Augustine Daly)

The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone,

And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the

seas; In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own,

And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.

Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, And only a few

square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; But when Winter comes, I

have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not, And it's

better worth having than all their wealth -- it's a snowman in the yard.

The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; The

Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; The Judge can get

his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, And raise his orchids

under glass in the midst of all the snow.

But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, A thing

that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: And the Judge

would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny

house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.

They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears To toil

and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned, The

Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill

their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.

But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have

yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And

through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who

lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.

A Blue Valentine

(For Aline)

Main Street and Other Poems

Monsignore, Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, Sometime of

Interamna, which is called Ferni, Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, I

respectfully salute you, I genuflect And I kiss your episcopal ring.

It is not, Monsignore, The fragrant memory of your holy life, Nor that

of your shining and joyous martyrdom, Which causes me now to address

you. But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, It seems

appropriate to me to state According to a venerable and agreeable custom,

That I love a beautiful lady. Her eyes, Monsignore, Are so blue that they

put lovely little blue reflections On everything that she looks at, Such as a

wall Or the moon Or my heart. It is like the light coming through blue

stained glass, Yet not quite like it, For the blueness is not transparent, Only

translucent. Her soul's light shines through, But her soul cannot be seen. It

is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise And noble.

She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, Made in the manner of the

Japanese. It is very blue -- I think that her eyes have made it more blue,

Sweetly staining it As the pressure of her body has graciously given it

form. Loving her, Monsignore, I love all her attributes; But I believe That

even if I did not love her I would love the blueness of her eyes, And her

blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.

Monsignore, I have never before troubled you with a request. The

saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas are the most exquisite

and maternal Brigid, Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,

And your brother bishop, my patron, The generous and jovial Saint

Nicholas of Bari. But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, Do me this favour:

When you this morning make your way To the Ivory Throne that bursts

into bloom with roses because of her who sits upon it, When you come

to pay your devoir to Our Lady, I beg you, say to her: "Madame, a poor

poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, Has asked me to say that at

this moment he is especially grateful to you For wearing a blue gown."

Main Street and Other Poems

Houses

(For Aline)

When you shall die and to the sky Serenely, delicately go, Saint

Peter, when he sees you there, Will clash his keys and say: "Now talk to

her, Sir Christopher! And hurry, Michelangelo! She wants to play at

building, And you've got to help her play!"

Every architect will help erect A palace on a lawn of cloud, With

rainbow beams and a sunset roof, And a level star-tiled floor; And at

your will you may use the skill Of this gay angelic crowd, When a house

is made you will throw it down, And they'll build you twenty more.

For Christopher Wren and these other men Who used to build on

earth Will love to go to work again If they may work for you. "This

porch," you'll say, "should go this way!" And they'll work for all they're

worth, And they'll come to your palace every morning, And ask you

what to do.

And when night comes down on Heaven-town (If there should be

night up there) You will choose the house you like the best Of all that

you can see: And its walls will glow as you drowsily go To the bed up

the golden stair, And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep A room in

your house for me.

Main Street and Other Poems

In Memory

Serene and beautiful and very wise, Most erudite in curious Grecian

lore, You lay and read your learned books, and bore A weight of unshed

tears and silent sighs. The song within your heart could never rise Until

love bade it spread its wings and soar. Nor could you look on Beauty's

face before A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes.

Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; Love is a poignant and

accustomed pain. It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder; It is a linnet's

fluting after rain. Love's voice is through your song; above and under

And in each note to echo and remain.

Because Mankind is glad and brave and young, Full of gay flames

that white and scarlet glow, All joys and passions that Mankind may

know By you were nobly felt and nobly sung. Because Mankind's heart

every day is wrung By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so,

Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe, A harp Aeolian on Life's

branches hung.

So did the ghosts of toiling children hover About the piteous portals

of your mind; Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover The angry

scar to which the world was blind: And it was grief that made Mankind

your lover, And it was grief that made you love Mankind.

III

Before Christ left the Citadel of Light, To tread the dreadful way of

human birth, His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth And those who

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MainStreetandOtherPoems1MainStreetandOtherPoemsbyJoyceKilmerMainStreetandOtherPoems2MainStreet(ForS.M.L.)Iliketolookattheblossomytrackofthemoonuponthesea,Butitisn'thalfsofineasightasMainStreetusedtobeWhenitallwascoveredoverwithacoupleoffeetofsnow,Andoverthecrispandradiantroadtheringingsleighswouldgo...

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