“WOODEN RACKETS FOR TENNIS.” a short poem, a.k.a.: “Playing With Wood In The Morning.” Saturday,
My tennis strokes are long and hard and yours are sure & quick;
I wish I hadMeAracket (like yours) aRacketSo supple and slick,
Yet, I still think WOOD v. WOOD, My Friend, is a worthy “tennis precedent,”
And that if GOD did play with us, (S)He’d Agree:
“Trees are Heaven Sent!”
For, “I think I’ll never (ever) see,
A poem, (as) lovely as a tree;
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed, Again 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.”
penned by Joyce Kilmer, not to be confused with Val Kilmer.
Joyce was born in New Brunswick, N. J. and died at age 32, while fighting in World War I.
