I think that I will never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's 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 has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.