søndag 17. januar 2010

Trees




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