I think that I shall never see a poem so lovely as a tree; A tree whose hungry mouth has pressed against earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day; and lifts her leafy arms to pray. A tree that in Summer wears a nest of robins in her hair; upon her bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree!
Joyce Kilmore 1886-1918