Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1918-08-20

r WONDER II there is any other country
L where the death of a young poet Is
double column front-page news?
And II poets were able TO proofread their
own obits, I wonder If any two lines would
have given Joyce Kilmer more honest pride
than these:
JOYCE KILMER, POET.
IS KILLED IN ACTION =.
which gave many lfearts pang when they
picked I'D the PUBLIC LEDGER last Sunday
morning.
Joyce KILMER died as he lived-"in
- action" He found life intensely anus
ing, unspeakably interesting; his energy
was unlimited, his courage stout. He at
tackled life at all points. rapidly gathered
its complexities about him. and the more
intricate IT became the more zestful he
found 1t. Nothing bewildered him, nothing
terrified. BY the time he was thirty he
had attained an almost unique position In
literary circles. He lectured on poetry. he
interviewed famous men Of letters, he was
poet, editor. essayist. critic, anthologist.
He was endlessly active. full Of delightful
mirth and a thousand schemes for outwit-
ting the devil Of necessity that hunts all
brainworkers. Nothing could quench him.
He could turn out copy" in any
emergency. When he was run down by
train in New Jersey, he continued dictat-
ing from his bed in the hospital, and his
weekly article for the New York Times
reached the printer on schedule.
DUT beneath this whirling activity which
- amused and amazed his friends there
lay deeper and quieter vein which was
rich in its own passion. 1t Is not becoming
to prate of what lies in other mems souls;
we all have our secrecies and sanctuaries.
rarely acknowledged even to ourselves.
But no one can read Joyce Kilmers poems
without grasping his vigorous idealism, his
keen sense Of beauty, his devout and sim.
| pie religion, his clutch on the preciousness
Of common things. He loved the precarious
hustle on Grub street; he was Of that ad-
| venturous buoyant stuff that rejects hum
drum security and a pelfed and padded life.
| He always insisted that America is the
| very shrine and fountain of poetry, and
this country (which is indeed pathetically
| eager to take poets to its bosom) stirred
his vivid imagination. The romance
| Of the commuters train and the sub
urban street, of the delicatessen shop
and the circus and the snowman In the
| yard-these were the familiar themes
where he was rich and feicitous. Many
a commuter will remember his beautiful
poem "The 12:45," bespeaking the thrill we
have all felt in the shabby midnight train
that takes us home, yearning and weary
to the well-beloved hearth: ...
What love commands, the train fulflls
| And beautiful upon the hills
| Are these our feet Of FURNISHED steel.
Subtly and certainly, I feel
| THAT Glen Rock welcomes us to her.
And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
And smile. because she knows the train
Has brought her children back again.
We carry people home-and
God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
The midnight train is slow and old,
But of It let this thing be told,
To it's high honor be 1t said,
II carries weary folk to bed
HyO man such as this. whose who'll
! fervent and busy adventure was Ii
within by the lamplight and frelight o
domestic passion, the war. with its broker
homes and defiled sanctities, came as
personal affront. Both to his hunger 10
=