Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree;

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
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 folls like me,
But only God can make a tree.

- Joyce Kilmer