Trees

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I think that I shall never see

A pome 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 pay

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 intimattely lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree. 

Up next On Killing a Tree Deepika Singh · 4 views

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Fear No More

Fear No More

  Fear no more the heat o' the sun.

Nor the furious winter's rages.

Thou, thy worldly task hast done.

Home art gone, and  te'en thy wages ;

Goiden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-- sweepers, come to dust.

 




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