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 palms 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
