Trees

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest;
Against 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 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

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