Trees
by Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed, 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.
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