Tree

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 aft 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.

 

Done