For funeral directors Log in Create a farewellCreate a farewell website

Trees

Reading time: 35 seconds

A classic Gentle Not about death Outdoorsy Plain English Religious

Joyce Kilmer · 1913

Trees

Joyce Kilmer · 1913

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.

Public domain in the UK and the US · serany.app

What Serany thinks about this poem

A classic Gentle Not about death Outdoorsy Plain English Religious

Background

Kilmer wrote it in 1913 at his house in New Jersey, looking out of a window. He was killed by a sniper in France five years later, at thirty-one.

Meaning

He says a tree beats anything he could write. It drinks from the ground, holds birds and snow, and spends all day looking at God.

Who's it for

A gardener, a farmer, or anyone who planted things that are still growing. It also fits a believer who found God outdoors rather than indoors.

More poems that aren't about death

4 in all

See all 4 →

Barter

This poem is for a person who got a lot out of being alive: weather, music, food, their children's faces. Right where a family want the funeral to be about the living they did.

Non-religiousNot about death

1917

50 sec

Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.

Read the whole poem →

Hope is the thing with feathers

This poem is for someone who stayed hopeful without ever making a show of it, and kept other people going by it.

A classicComforting

1891

30 sec

If—

This poem is for someone who got on with things, kept their temper, and didn’t make a fuss when life went against them. The sort of person other people steadied themselves against.

A classicFor a father

1910

2 min

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Read the whole poem →

More religious poems

9 in all

See all 9 →

A Psalm of Life

This poem is for someone who never sat still and left things behind them: a business, a trade, a houseful of people they taught. Right for a life spent being useful.

A classicPlain English

1838

2 min

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;-- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Read the whole poem →

Crossing the Bar

This poem is for someone who had a long life and was ready. Especially right for anyone who went to sea, or just loved being near it.

A classicA long life

1889

45 sec

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

Read the whole poem →

Death Is Nothing At All

This poem is for almost any funeral, and it is the reading most families have already heard. Right for someone whose house was full of easy talk and jokes.

A classicComforting

1919

2 min

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Read the whole poem →

Death, be not proud

This poem is for a believer, and a family who want something with some fight in it rather than a quiet goodbye. It suits a person who argued back all their life.

A classicReligious

1633

55 sec

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go-- Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

Read the whole poem →

Epitaph on an Infant

This poem is for a baby, or a child who died very small. It is right where a family believe their child is somewhere safe and being looked after now.

ComfortingFor a baby

1794

10 sec

No coward soul is mine

This poem is for a person whose faith was entirely their own and who had no time for churches. Right for someone nobody could frighten.

ReligiousStoic

1850

1 min

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life--that in me has rest, As I--undying Life--have power in Thee! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as wither'd weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes cease to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee. There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Read the whole poem →

Prospice

This poem is for someone who fought their illness all the way and wanted to know exactly what was happening. Also right for a person going back to a husband or wife who died first.

For a partnerFought to the end

1864

2 min

Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

Read the whole poem →

When I go from hence

This poem is for someone grateful and curious, who found something holy without needing a church for it. Right for a person who reckoned they had had the better of the bargain.

A long lifeComforting

1912

45 sec

When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed—let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come—let this be my parting word.

Read the whole poem →

More outdoorsy poems

11 in all

See all 11 →

Afterwards

This poem is for someone who noticed things other people walked straight past. Right for a gardener, a birdwatcher, or anyone who was kind to animals.

GentleNon-religious

1917

2 min

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things"? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, "To him this must have been a familiar sight." If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, But he could do little for them; and now he is gone"? If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, "He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?

Read the whole poem →

Barter

This poem is for a person who got a lot out of being alive: weather, music, food, their children's faces. Right where a family want the funeral to be about the living they did.

Non-religiousNot about death

1917

50 sec

Read the whole poem →

Crossing the Bar

This poem is for someone who had a long life and was ready. Especially right for anyone who went to sea, or just loved being near it.

A classicA long life

1889

45 sec

Read the whole poem →

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

This poem is for almost anyone, honestly. It's best of all for someone who was always outside: out walking, in the garden, never in the house.

A classicComforting

1932

We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

More about this poem →

I strove with none

This poem is for someone who reached a good age and stayed out of other people's arguments. Right for a person who loved being outdoors or worked with their hands, and was content by the end.

A long lifeNon-religious

1849

15 sec

Joy, Shipmate, Joy!

This poem is for a sailor, or anyone who was happiest setting off somewhere new. Right for a family who want something glad said out loud at the funeral.

For an adventurerNon-religious

1871

20 sec

Requiem

This poem is for someone who travelled, or worked outdoors, or just loved a big view. Right for a person who was happy with the life they got.

A classicNon-religious

1887

25 sec

Warm Summer Sun

This poem is for someone who died young, and a family who want something very short and very tender. Right where a longer reading would be more than anyone could manage.

GentleGone too soon

1893

10 sec

With rue my heart is laden

This poem is for a friend, which is the one it is really for, and anyone who died young. Right for someone who was good company and quick on their feet.

For a friendGentle

1896

20 sec

Woodland Burial

This poem is for someone who wanted a natural burial, or would have if anyone had asked. Right for a gardener, a walker, anyone who'd rather be under a tree than a headstone.

ComfortingModern

We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

More about this poem →

Are you planning a funeral?

A Serany website keeps the whole funeral in one place: the plans and the details, who is coming, flowers and donations, and somewhere for everyone who knew them to leave a memory.

Create a farewell website See how it works