I

think

that I shall

never see a poem

as lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed against the earth

sweet flowing breast, and lifts her

leafy arms to pray. A tree that may in

summer, wear a nest of robins in her hair;

upon whose snow has lain; who intimately

lives with rain

poems are made by

fools like

me

but

only

God

can

make

a

tree