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
