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.