I make the most of all that comes and the least of all that goes.
Sara Teasdale
Alarm Clock
by Joyce Kilmer
When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm
Across green fields and yellow hills of hay
The little twittering birds laugh in his way
And poise triumphant on his shining arm.
He bears a sword of flame but not to harm
The wakened life that feels his quickening sway
And barnyard voices shrilling “It is day!”
Take by his grace a new and alien charm.
But in the city, like a wounded thing
That limps to cover from the angry chase,
He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,
And wanly mock his young and shameful face;
And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring
In many a high and dreary sleeping place.
Madness
(For Sara Teasdale)
by Joyce Kilmer
The lonely farm, the crowded street,
The palace and the slum,
Give welcome to my silent feet
As, bearing gifts, I come.
Last night a beggar crouched alone,
A ragged helpless thing;
I set him on a moonbeam throne —
Today he is a king.
Last night a king in orb and crown
Held court with splendid cheer;
Today he tears his purple gown
And moans and shrieks in fear.
Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,
Not land, nor sky, nor sea,
Nor love’s artillery of tears
Can keep mine own from me.
Serene, unchanging, ever fair,
I smile with secret mirth
And in a net of mine own hair
I swing the captive earth.
Fourteen Lines 
The second stanza of that first Kilmer poem once more surprised me with hints of the potential ash-scan school poet that Kilmer could have become.
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I have come to realize Kilmer is anthologized because of his potential of what he could have been and the reverence society puts on the fallen in war. There are far many better war poets, but one of the reasons Kilmer is still around is we prefer our PTSD from a war torn history to be blinded by naivete on what an ugly business it is to kill one another for King, country or despot.
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