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.
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📖 About this poem
Kilmer's "Trees" is a small, humble confession dressed up as praise. Twelve lines, rhymed in tidy couplets, moving with the plainspoken rhythm of a hymn — it wants to be said aloud, maybe even memorized, the way it was for generations of schoolchildren.
The poem's trick is treating a tree as a living body: mouth pressed to the earth, arms lifted in prayer, a nest worn in her hair like an ornament. That personification is what makes it linger — a tree becomes something that eats, worships, and hosts guests, all while just standing still in a field.
The famous last couplet is really the whole point: human art, however sincere, can only imitate; the real thing belongs to God. That modesty, paired with such cozy, tactile images of snow and rain, is why the poem still feels gentle and true rather than grand or preachy.
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