I think that I shall never see

A poem as 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.

Joyce Kilmer