I Think That I Shall Never See

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree. A Tree Whose Hungry Mouth Is Pressed 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.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

There Is No Place In Which To Hide When Age Comes Seeking For His Bride.

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.