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Peter Dawson

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Peter Dawson

Trees

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.