| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | A Blue Valentine | | By Joyce Kilmer |
| | For Aline MONSIGNORE, | |
| Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus, | |
| Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni, | |
| Now of the delightful Court of Heaven, | |
| I respectfully salute you, | 5 |
| I genuflect | |
| And I kiss your episcopal ring. | |
| |
| It is not, Monsignore, | |
| The fragrant memory of your holy life, | |
| Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom, | 10 |
| Which causes me now to address you. | |
| But since this is your august festival, Monsignore, | |
| It seems appropriate to me to state | |
| According to a venerable and agreeable custom, | |
| That I love a beautiful lady. | 15 |
| Her eyes, Monsignore, | |
| Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections | |
| On everything that she looks at, | |
| Such as a wall | |
| Or the moon | 20 |
| Or my heart. | |
| It is like the light coming through blue stained glass, | |
| Yet not quite like it | |
| For the blueness is not transparent, | |
| Only translucent. | 25 |
| Her soul’s light shines through, | |
| But her soul cannot be seen. | |
| It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise | |
| And noble. | |
| She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment, | 30 |
| Made in the manner of the Japanese. | |
| It is very blue— | |
| I think that her eyes have made it more blue, | |
| Sweetly staining it | |
| As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form. | 35 |
| Loving her, Monsignore, | |
| I love all her attributes; | |
| But I believe | |
| That even if I did not love her | |
| I should love the blueness of her eyes, | 40 |
| And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. | |
| |
| Monsignore, | |
| I have never before troubled you with a request. | |
| The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid, | |
| Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood, | 45 |
| And your brother bishop, my patron, | |
| The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari. | |
| But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, | |
| Do me this favor: | |
| When you this morning make your way | 50 |
| To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses because of her who sits upon it, | |
| When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady, | |
| I beg you, say to her: | |
| “Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth, | |
| Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you | 55 |
| For wearing a blue gown.” | | | | |
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