Explore "Martin" by Joyce Kilmer on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When I am tired of earnest men, / Intense and keen and sharp and clever, / Pursuing fame with brush or pen, / Or counting metal disks forever, / Then from the halls of Shadowland, / Beyond the trackless purple sea, / Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand / Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face / A quizzical thin smile is showing, / His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, / His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. / He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, / A suit to match his soft grey hair, / A rakish stick, a knowing hat, / A manner blithe and debonair.