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 the rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them,
whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.
They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred
by particulars, the ancient law of life.
For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider,
every green tree is far more glorious
than if it were made of gold or silver.
We had to cut down a huge oak tree in the front yard today. It had been struck by lightning and was weeping from a disease so it had to go before it fell on somebody. The old tree was home to birds and squirrels and shaded the front yard from afternoon sun. It will be sadly missed.