"The Second Coming" by Wm. Butler Yeats (1919)

Every artist interprets events differently. In the First World War two poets went to battle. They both wrote poems which would stand the test of time. Both poems grew out of the same horrors, and yet both perceived their experiences in such different ways. Here we will examine just two; which have both become emblematic of that conflict; the War to End All Wars.

The first one is by W.B. Yeats. He wrote the classic poem “The Second Coming” while still in France in 1919. The horrors of what he has seen and experienced are compared to the end of time as envisioned in the Bible. It is a stark and dreary assessment of what man hopes for as a result of war; yet he is resigned to a fate which he hopes will bring him rebirth.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

This second poem is much simpler in construction, as well as message. Joyce Kilmer served with the NY Regiment in the same war. He, too came away with a sense of rebirth and a belief in a better world. But the difference in the two poems and their outlooks is astonishing. You all know this one. It’s from 1^st grade.

Trees

I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

 A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

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.

The Big Tree

Some things, like this tree, need no words to enhance their beauty. They would seem inadequate. But, just like last year, I can't help but post Joyce Kilmer's poem, "Trees", to honor this beautiful specimen, neatly groomed, which sits off of Williamson Road in Mooresville.

A big thank you to the architect who decided to build around the tree, rather than rip it up. This tree, were it able to speak, could tell us so much about how things have changed over the course of it's life. In a way, though, the tree does speak; each time the breeze rustles it's leaves, or when the winter wind moans through her bare limbs, and when the birds of summer sing softly from her leafy branches, the tree sings. And the best part is that those are three of my favorite songs.

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

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.

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet 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.

The author of this wonderful poem was born Alfred Joyce Kilmer on December 6, 1886 in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and passed away during the fighting in the Second Battle of the Marne on July 30, 1918. He was a member of New York's famed "Fighting 69th". Known as an American journalist, poet, critic, and editor, he had already made his mark upon the world when he died at age 31.

Though he is mostly remembered for the above poem "Trees", which he wrote in 1913, he was a most prolific writer, and appears frequently in anthologies of American poetry. Although most critics consider his work too simple, I have always found his words to be direct and compact. I find his style akin to Haiku poetry, where less often means more. He was the workingman's Wordsworth, easily understood by all.

I grew up just a few short blocks from Sgt. Joyce Kilmer Square on Kings Highway and East 12th Street in Brooklyn, New York. There used to be an Armed Forces Recruiting Station located there. Perhaps that is why I have always held his works in such high regard.