I think that I will never see A poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the Earth's sweet flowing breast. A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leaf-filled arms to pray. A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair. Upon whose bosom snow has lain, Who's intimately lived with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.