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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.

​

Joyce Kilmer (1913)