Trees

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the sweet earth's 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.

Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918