Tuesdays and Thursdays, 10:10AM - 11:00AM, Olin Hall 155

Trees, by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see a poem as 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 here 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.

Poem are made by fools like m, but only God can make a tree.

Gries's version (he can't remember where he learned it)

Of all the things I had'a be, I had'a be a lousy tree.

A tree who lifts his arms to pray, in hopes the dogs might go away.

A nest of robins I do wear, and what they do gets in my hair.

That's all I am, alack, alas, a comfort station in the grass.