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Trees
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 rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
- Joyce Kilmer
Photos Courtesy-Southern Region, U. S. Forest Service
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Joyce Kilmer, author of this immortal poem,
was born in New Brunswick, N. J., Decem-
ber 6, 1886. The Joyce Kilmer Forest, in
Western North Carolina, is preserved as an
everlasting tribute to him. Á soldier in the
World War, he was killed in action in
France, June 30, 1918.
