Trees' Breeze After Alfred Joyce Kilmer - Trees Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

I'm sure I'll never feel a breeze
as soft as reels pure poet's frieze.

A poet sows sweet soothing rest
where winds are wild, blow to the west.

A poet, praised, demands no fees
but sees through breezy censor's sneeze

that all life's petty jealousies
may into opportunities

be turned, to gold transmutes life's clay, -
a triumph of ephem...hurray!

A poem heats the arteries
when east winds sleet, and boilers freeze.

A poem's rich rhymes spawns friends where
a storm which rimes warns, sends despair.

A poem fresh emotions frees,
a fresh breeze lifts the leaves from trees.

Far from the madding crowd with ease
a poet flies, - soon dies the breeze.

The breeze's blasts snow banks contain,
the poet casts no rank refrain.

God knows there's none who disagrees,
no zephyr's warm as poet's frieze.

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 1888_1918
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

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