Trees By Joyce Kilmer
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.