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 fools like me

but only God can make a tree.