2.26 I Think That I Shall Never See a Poem Lovely as a Tree
Psychedelic poetry from a man named Joyce.

Resuming my search for poetry that everyone knows, even if only half remembered through lampoons and pastiches, I came across Trees, which is the greatest achievement of the little-known American poet, Joyce Kilmer. You will know it, even if the name of the poet means nothing to you. The opening couplet is…
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree
Surely everyone has heard that. Well, maybe the word “poem” isn’t as well memorised as the other ones in there. I had unconsciously made a slight alteration in the poetry compilation stored in the neurones of my brain making it…
I think that I shall never see A thing as lovely as a tree
Those neurones regularly fire up every time a look at I tree. Perhaps it’s the inner tree hugger in me. Perhaps I am just an ageing hippie, but I really feel that there is some profound truth in those simple lines. Trees are amazing.
On my recent trip to London, I spent a pleasant hour or so in one of its many little green squares, laid in the shade beneath a tree. It wasn’t Bloomsbury square, but it was near enough, both geographically and in my imagination, to turn my mind to poetic thoughts.
It was probably an oak. But it could have been a sycamore. The fact is that it was huge. Looking up through its branches to the sky, I was struck by the realisation that there was only the tree between me and the vast expanse of space (the final frontier). Just a few feet away, the bustle of the capital was going on as usual, horns honking, shops selling, people wrapped up in the commerce and relationships which make up the complexities of their individual lives but above me were gently swaying branches, spring leaves, blossom… and infinity.
A tree is a city in itself. How many creatures, insects, birds, even small mammals might make their home in it. How many of them never leave its confines, or never stray very far from its immediate environment? To those creatures the tree is their whole world, whether it is in the centre of London, or a forest in the back of beyond. Of course some of the birds within a tree’s branches may have travelled half way around the world to be there. This makes the tree even more like a modern city, the best of which, including London itself, being welcoming to incomers from all nations.
The Labour politician Alastair Campbell used to post a “tree of the day” every day on Twitter. He might still do so, but I emigrated to the less toxic communities of Bluesky long ago. I am sure that there are other similar accounts on all social media. Generally, a “tree of the day” is one that can be photographed as an entire object, as it stands alone. The felled tree at Sycamore Gap was a paradigm of the sort of thing. I wrote a short piece about another one, The Keep Out Tree, in my article A Short Guide to Places of Interest in the Local Area.
The Japanese practice of shinrin-yoku or forest bathing is promoted in Britain these days by the National Trust. There is some talk of the health benefits of the practice being a scientifically proven fact. There is no need to worry about the science. Go for a walk in the woods or spend some time under a tree on a nice day, and you can feel it1.
I had assumed that Joyce Kilmer was a woman until I discovered otherwise. Apparently, the forename Joyce is dates back to pre 14th century France, and was still very occasionally being given to American boys in the 1880s. Strangely, the recently departed actor Val Kilmer also had an arguably feminine forename, however that Val was not related to this Joyce.
Kilmer had very little success beyond the poem Trees, but he did write a number of pieces, and is remembered by some as a First Word War Poet. He enlisted in April 1917, shortly after America entered the conflict, and fought in France, being killed by a sniper in the battle of Marne in July 1918 at the age of 31.
His poem, Rouge Bouquet was read on the occasion of his burial in Picardy. It had been written after many of his comrades had fallen during a battle of that name just a few months earlier. .
Rouge Bouquet (excerpt) - by Joyce Kilmer
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
Kilmer had written Trees four years before, in happier times at his home in New Jersey. Perhaps to get the authentic feeling of the piece, it ought to be read in a New Jersey accent. I like to imagine it in the voice of Jimmy Durante although his accent was Lower East Side New York rather than New Jersey. From this side of the Atlantic Ocean, my untrained ear doesn’t take such distinctions into account.
There are people who complain that the poem is too sentimental and religious, with its casual name dropping of God in a couple of lines. I am not one of those people. I feel that Kilmer’s work is more akin to psychedelic than religious poetry. The image of a tree pressing its hungry mouth against the breast of the Earth, sucking up its goodness, to give it sustenance is pretty trippy, if you ask me.
Although Kilmer was a Catholic, he doesn’t labour the point in this poem. He doesn’t even suggest that the creator of the tree is a Christian God, allowing the reader to think of the God who creates trees as a life giving force such as Gaia, Mother Nature, or some other intangible spiritual force that people feel when filled with awe in the presence of natural beauty, and that Richard Dawkins would probably never understand.
There are those who complain the lines personify the tree too much and that its anatomy, including mouth, arms, hair bosom (and possibly eyes) is all mixed up positionally making for a monstrous version of a human form. I don’t care for that argument either. I think that the confusion of the imagery is a masterstroke. Trees aren’t human. but they share some of our characteristics in the same way as say, elephants do. Trees are rather a lot like elephants. They are vast, slow moving, and seem to have some sort of gentle wisdom about them. We ought to look after them and ensure their survival, as the world would be a much emptier place without them.
Trees – by Joyce Kilmer
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.
Even Clint Eastwood isn’t immune to the charms of trees – singing I talk to the Trees in Paint Your Wagon. (As we all know, they don’t listen to him)
Always thought it was by a woman. Everyday is a school day. I’m reading some of my own poems on the subject of trees this month, so a very welcome reminder of this great poem. I love the line about being intimate with rain - such lovely alliteration, or is it assonance? - and so fitting if you’re reading it in the rainy UK.
Thanks for this ,The first 2 lines were the sort I was always 'throwing about ' in childhood but was obviously too lazy to investigate further,so much appreciated as ever.