By Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

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.


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This Page Last Updated 9/13/02