Driving slowly into town.
Past a log cabin in the park.
We knew the house by the magnolia.
A tree in the front yard.
It shaded the front room windows.
Pink in bloom.
Large flowers.
A place of quiet comfort.
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Trees
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.
-- Joyce Kilmer
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