(The words from "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer, rearranged.)
Lives, prest, never think that
a tree may wear
poems--and who can?
But that poem,
God made her lovely, intimatey.
Snow-hair, summer-breast,
leafy, sweet, rain-mouth,
make with
earth's hungry bosom.
A! To see a God-nest--a tree,
lain upon her arms--lifts all of me.
I, whose tree is like robins in the day,
whose tree looks in,
I shall pray
against fools only a-flowing by.
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