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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 leaty 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. 



—by Joyce Kilmer 



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