George Cabig - Trees
Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918
I Think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
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.