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;
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.
NOTE: Kilmer was killed by a sniper's bullet on the Western Front during WW1. The specific tree of which Kilmer writes is not known, although it could well have been one in his neighbourhood, Mahwah, in New Jersey.