I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

against 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.


Joyce Kilmer

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