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I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. |
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A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; |
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A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; |
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A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; |
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Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. |
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Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. |