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Peter Dawson
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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.
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