anniversary

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

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
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 poem "Trees" was written by American journalist, poet, literary critic, lecturer and editor, Alfred Joyce Kilmer. As a poet, Kilmer’s work celebrated the common beauty of the natural world as well as his religious faith.

Kilmer was killed on this date 90 years ago in World War I. During the Second Battle of Marne, he likely died immediately after being struck by a sniper's bullet to the head near Muercy Farm, beside the Oureq River near the village of Seringes in France. He was only 31 years old. Kilmer is buried in French soil in the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery near Fere-en-Tardenois.

I can only hope that a tree is standing somewhere nearby.

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