TREES
By
Joyce Kilmer
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.







