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.
Joyce KilmerAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: December 6, 1886
- Died: July 30, 1918
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