In Honor of My Poor, Lamented Oaks

 

Trees by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

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.

 

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