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.

And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse Not shaking the grass.

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox

and which you were probably saving for breakfast.

Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.