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I think that I will never see
A poem as 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 leaf-filled arms to pray.

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,

Who's intimately lived with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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