I think that I shall never see A poem as 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 people like me,
 But only God can make a tree.  
 By: Joyce Kilmer  (1886-1918) 

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last updated 17 May 2007