I think that I shall never see
            
               A poem lovely as a tree.
            
               A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
            
               Against the sweet earth‘s 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.
            
                 (Trees by Joyce Kilmer)