There Is No Place In Which To

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree.

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.

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.

The Air Is Like A Butterfly With Frail Blue Wings. The Happy Earth Looks At The Sky And Sings.

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.