English poem
Wooden-ware
by Herbert Beeman (1858–1944)
When you're driving on the highway And you see a wooden sign With DANGER printed on it, Where you cross a railway line,
You stop, and look, and listen; As we did the other day, To hear how careless campers Burn our forest wealth away.
We learnt this natural heritage Was a care upon us thrust, Both for our own advantage, None the less to hold in trust,
For those who follow after— Inarticulate appeal From the future's children's children, To be-think us of their weal.
From the cradle to the coffin, Be the journey bad or good, Short or long, and rough or easy, We can't get away from wood.
The farmer for his fences, The fisher for his pole, The miner for the pit-props Shoring up the seams of coal.
And more and more dependent On our forests are we made, To satisfy the markets Of our growing foreign trade.
And without this present factor Of our great prosperity, It's not a case of wooden-ware, It's where we wouldn't be?