I think that I shall never scan A tree as lovely as a man. . . . . A tree depicts divinest plan, But God himself lives in a man.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

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.

There is no peace to be taken/ With poets who are young,/ For they worry about the wars to be fought/ and the songs that must be sung.

It is stern work, it is perilous work to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree