Trees

　　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.