I think that   shall never see
 A poem lovely as a tree.

 A tree whose        mouth is prest
 Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

 A tree that          God all day,
 And lifts her       arms to pray;

 A tree that     in Summer wear
 A nest of        in her hair;

 Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
 Who intimately lives with rain.

 Poems are made    fools like me,
 But only God     make a tree.