Tuesday, April 23, 2013
This poem keeps running thru my mind this morning for some reason. The picture is of the tree that was in the front yard of my sister when she lived in Brookings on the Oregon coast.
Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's 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.