Trees, by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressedAgainst 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 wearA nest of robins in her hair. Upon whose bosom snow has lainWho intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.