The poet said,
“I think that I shall never see
a poem so lovely as a tree
For poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.”
I thought that strange and prob’ly wrong
Raised in town , I wasn’t strong
On Maples or on Chestnut trees.
But poems I knew and I could breeze
From A.A.Milne through Chaucer’s best
But now I’m old, and trees it seems
Have changed a lot (Or maybe not)
And this I know, there’s a promise here
That year by year the Winter’s sere
Turns with help to summer’s Green
And we’re no less than all those trees
So maybe there is hope for us
That you and I will green again
A second coming, as it were,
For each and every one of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment