I think 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.
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