In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet, There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade nor pick, Yet covered with earth ten meteres thick. Th… - Joyce Kilmer

The scene shall never fit the deed. Grotesquely wonders come to pass. The fool shall mount an Arab steed And Jesus ride upon an ass.

Trees (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

Loving her, Monsignore, I love all her attributes; But I believe That even if I did not love her I would love the blueness of her eyes, And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.