Trees
I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
against the earth's sweet 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.

by Joyce Kilmer






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