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 busom snow has lain;
 Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
 But only God can make a tree.