I think that I shall never seeA 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.
Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
1 comment:
A little bit of old time religion for you, just after Sunday midnight. For the first two and the last two lines, I think. Leaving aside the tiring question of what it all means, for a moment.
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