I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose thirsty mouth is pressed
against the earth's sweet flowering 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.
– Joyce Kilmer