søndag 17. januar 2010


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