Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1918-08-20
JOYCE KUMER
By Christopher Morley

the glamour Of such colossal drama, and
TO his sense Of what was most worshipful
in human life, the call was irresistible
Counsels OF prudence and comfort were as
nothing; the heart-shakng poetry Of this
nations entry into an utterly unselfish
war burned away all barriers His life
had been a fury Of writing, but those who
thought he had entered the war merely to
make journalism about 1t were mistaken,
Only few weeks ago he wrote:
To tell the TRUTH am not Interested in
writing nowadays, except in so far as writing
Is the expression of something beautiful
And 1 see daily and nightly the expression
OF beauty in action instead Of words and
find 1t more satisfactory. I'm a sergeant
in the regimental intelligence section-the
most fascinating work possible-more
thrills In 1t than in any other branch, ex-
cept, possibly, aviation. Wonderful life I
But don't know what I'll be able to do
in civilian life-unless become q fireman.
As JOURNALIST and lecturer Kilmer
"A was copious and enthusiastic rather
than deep. He found-a good deal to his
own secret mirth-womens clubs and
poetry societies sitting earnestly at his
feet. expectant to hear ultimate truth on
deep matters. His humor prompted him to
give them the ultimate truth they craved
If his critical judgments were not always
heavily documented or long pondered, they
were entertaining and pleasantly put.
The earnest world of literary societies and
blue-hosed salons lay about his feet; he
flashed In 1t merrily. chucklng inwardly
as he found hundreds Of worthy people
hanging breathless on his words. A kind
Of Kilmer cult grew apace; he had his fol.
lowers and his devotees. I mention these
things because he would have been the
first to chuckle over them. I do not think
he would want to be remembered as having
taken all that sort of thing too seriously.
1t was all a delicious game-part of the
grand joke Of living. Sometimes, among
his friends he would begin to pontificate
in his platform manner. Then he would
recall himself. and his characteristic grin
would fiood his face.
As A journalist, I say, he was copious:
n but as a poet his song was always
prompted by genuine gush Of emotion.
"A poet is only glorified reporter" he
used to say; he took as his favorite as
signment the happier precincts of the
human heart. AS he said Of Belloc, a true
poet will never write to order-not even
to his own order. He sang because he
heard life singing all about him. His three
| little books Of poems have always been
dear to lovers Of honest simplicity And
now their words will be lit henceforward
| by an inner and tender brightness-the
| memory of a gallant boy who flung him.
self finely against the walls of life. Where
they preached he broke through and waved
| his sword laughing. Where they hurled
him back he turned away. laughing STILL
| let us spare his memory the glib and
| IL customary dishonesty that says HE
died as he would have wished to-" No
| man wishes to die-at least, no poet does
| To part with the exhilarating hustle and
tumult, the blueness of the sky. the sun
light that tingles on well-known street
corners the plumbers bills and the edi
tors checks, the mirths OF fellowship and
the Joys of Homecoming when lamps are
iit-all this is too close fiber to be stripped
easily from the naked heart. But the poei
must go where the greatest songs are
singing Perhaps he fnds after all. thai
life ana death are part OF the same rhyme