by Alfred Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
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.
Note: Today is the anniversary of the death of the journalist, poet, and World War I soldier Alfred Joyce Kilmer who was born in Brunswick, New Jersey. He was killed in action while serving as a sergeant in the 165th Infantry regiment on July 30, 1918.
Every year on his birthday in April, Kilmer's childhood home at 17 Joyce Kilmer Ave. in New Brunswick, holds an Open House from 10 am to 4 pm.
Kilmer is best remembered for his poem Trees.
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