I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.

It is stern work, it is perilous work to thrust your hand in the sun
And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men.

For nothing keeps a poet
In his high singing mood
Like unappeasable hunger
For unattainable food.

There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
and the songs that must be sung.