When I think of the different lifeforms that grace the earth, trees and plants (most of them, anyway) always come up on top. They give so much and yet they only take a little of what flows freely from nature: the air, the rays of the sun, the rain and the earth. Though exposed, trees give shelter; though maltreated, they are at peace; though still, they seem to contemplate the furthest horizons. They predate us by millions of years and yet not a drop of blood has ever stained their dignity. Their nature is their wisdom and their virtue. But I wonder, do they think? If they did, I would dread to know what they would think of us.
By (Alfred) Joyce Kilmer
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.
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.
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