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.