Death came before the poet had developed or even matured his gifts. His first volume, _Summer of Love_ (1911), is wholly imitative; it is full of reflections of a dozen other sources, “a broken bundle of mirrors.” _Trees and Other Poems_ (1914) contains the title-poem by which Kilmer is best known and, though various influences are still strong (one cannot miss the borrowed accents of Patmore, Belloc, Chesterton, Housman and—_vide_ “Martin”—E. A. Robinson), a refreshing candor lights up the lines. _Main Street and Other Poems_ (1917) is less derivative; the simplicity is less self-conscious, the ecstasy more spontaneous.
Besides his own poetry, Kilmer edited a selection of _Verses_ by Hilaire Belloc (1916) and _Dreams and Images_, An Anthology of Catholic poets (1917).
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.
How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth.
Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin’s life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,— Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child.