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 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.