The speaker is filled with a simple, humble wonder at the loveliness of a tree — a beauty so genuine, it feels beyond what any human poem could match. He imagines the tree as a living, breathing being: its roots pressed hungrily to the earth for nourishment, its leafy branches stretched upward all day as if in quiet prayer. There’s a tender intimacy in the details — a bird’s nest carried like an ornament, snow resting softly against its trunk, rain becoming a close companion. The mood is one of reverence, not of grand intellectual argument but of calm, grateful awe. The closing lines confess something almost self-deprecating: the poet can only craft verses, yet the tree feels like an unmistakable, divine handiwork. It’s a gentle reminder that some things in the natural world hold a sacred, effortless grace that art can only humbly circle.
Trees — Summary
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)
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.