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