I think I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is press
Against the Earth sweet flowering breast:
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray:
A tree that may have in summer
A nest of Robin in her hair
Upon whose blossom snow has lain
Who intimately glow as a green emerald in the rain.
Poems are made by immortals like me,
But only God can make gems like the tree.