fury of writing, but
those who thought he had entered the war merely to make journalism about
it were mistaken. Only a few weeks before his death he wrote:

To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing nowadays,
except in so far as writing is the expression of something
beautiful. And I see daily and nightly the expression of beauty
in action instead of words, and I find it more satisfactory. I am
a sergeant in the regimental intelligence section--the most
fascinating work possible--more thrills in it than in any other
branch, except, possibly, aviation. Wonderful life! But I don't
know what I'll be able to do in civilian life--unless I become a
fireman!

As journalist and lecturer Kilmer was copious and enthusiastic rather
than deep. He found--a good deal to his own secret mirth--women's clubs
and poetry societies sitting earnestly at his feet, expectant to hear
ultimate truth on deep matters. His humour prompted him to give them
the ultimate truth they craved. If his critical judgments were not
always heavily documented or long pondered, they were entertaining and
pleasantly put. The earnest world of literary societies and blue-hosed
salons lay about his feet; he flashed in it merrily, chuckling inwardly
as he found hundreds of worthy people hanging breathless on his words. A
kind of Kilmer cult grew apace; he had his followers and his devotees. I
mention these things because he would have been the first to chuckle
over them. I do not think he would want to be remembered as having taken
all that sort of thing too seriously. It was all a delicious game--part
of the grand joke of living. Sometimes, among his friends, he would
begin to pontificate in his platform manner. Then he would recall
himself, and his characteristic grin would flood his face.

As a journalist, I say, he was copious; but as a poet his song was
always prompted by a genuine gush of emotion. "A poet is only a
glorified reporter," he used to say; he took as his favourite assignment
the happier precincts of the human heart. As he said of Belloc, a true
poet will never write to order--not even to his own order. He sang
because he heard life singing all about him. His three little books of
poems have always been dear to lovers of honest simplicity. And now
their words will be lit henceforward by an inner and tender
brightness--the memory of a gallant boy who flung himself finely
against the walls of lif