"God Rest His Dear and Gallant Soul"

Last night I was trying to decided what to make my next bedside reading. I looked on my kindle and thought I would reread The Scarlet Letter, but after eight or ten pages of the first chapter I set it aside. Maybe another time. Then I turned to a Chesterton book on my kindle, The Crimes of England. That was a bust too. Too much concentration needed. Then I remembered that I have a book written by Stalin's daughter that I've been wanting to read. So I went over and looked for it on the biography bookshelf, but a little volume caught my eye and I pulled it out. It was a small biography of Joyce Kilmer. I opened it and began reading and was a third of the way through it before setting it down and turning off the light.   

 

When I was at Trinity College in Washington, D.C., Joyce Kilmer's granddaughter was two years behind me. We never got to know each other, I didn't think about it at the time, but she never knew her grandfather. He was killed in World War I at the age of 31. Even his own children likely remembered little about him. I am only beginning to realize myself how true the title of this post is. It was the statement of Fr. Francis Duffy, military chaplain. Kilmer's military brothers found him on a little hill where they thought he was examining the area. He was dead with a bullet in the brain.  He was buried in France near the spot where he was killed. A memorial Mass was said for him at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York on October 14, 1918. 

Growing up I loved Kilmer's poetry. I could never pass an abandoned house without reciting the first stanza (all I could remember) of his poem, The House With Nobody In It:

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Kilmer's most famous poem is Trees, but The House with Nobody In It is the poem that really tugs at my heart. It speaks of happy times that have passed, of memories made and forgotten. I think of the houses where we've lived which are filled now with other families and I hope they are as happy as we were living there. The 2nd verse makes it a perfect poem for Halloween and the last two verses can actually make me cry. Perhaps I'll see if my old brain can memorize the whole poem. Then when I pass the old abandoned house on Cemetery Road, I can stop and recite it as an elegy to all the families who once lived there.

I'm a big fan of G.K. Chesterton and the two men have much in common including their conversion to the Catholic Church. I believe we had our own Chesterton here in the U.S. He was Joyce Kilmer: poet, journalist, playwright, literary critic. Had he lived, I can only imagine the work he would have done. But God, in His wisdom and Providence, called Him home young. May he rest in peace. The next time I send Mass requests to St. Joseph Abbey in France, I will include Joyce Kilmer. God rest his dear and gallant soul. 

St. Joseph, pillar of families, pray for him and all of us.