”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.”
Joyce Kilmer, “Trees,” 1914
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