Download this as PDF Trees, Invictus, Thinking

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.