It Is Stern Work, It Is Perilous

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.

I Think That I Shall Never Scan A Tree As Lovely As A Man. . . . . A Tree Depicts Divinest Plan, But God Himself Lives In A Man.

What Matters Death, If Freedom Be Not Dead? No Flags Are Fair, If Freedom's Flag Be Furled. Who Fights For Freedom, Goes With Joyful Tread To Meet The Fires Of Hell Against Him Hurled.

There Is No Peace To Be Taken With Poets Who Are Young, For They Worry About The Wars To Be Fought And The Songs That Must Be Sung.

I Suppose I Passed It A Hundred Times, But I Always Stop For A Minute. And Look At The House, The Tragic House, The House With Nobody In It.