How will the legend of the age of trees <br />Feel, when the last tree falls in England? <br />When the concrete spreads and the town conquers <br />The country’s heart; when contraceptive <br />Tarmac’s laid where farm has faded, <br />Tramline flows where slept a hamlet, <br />And shop-fronts, blazing without a stop from <br />Dover to Wrath, have glazed us over? <br />Simplest tales will then bewilder <br />The questioning children, “What was a chestnut? <br />Say what it means to climb a Beanstalk, <br />Tell me, grandfather, what an elm is. <br />What was Autumn? They never taught us.” <br />Then, told by teachers how once from mould <br />Came growing creatures of lower nature <br />Able to live and die, though neither <br />Beast nor man, and around them wreathing <br />Excellent clothing, breathing sunlight – <br />Half understanding, their ill-acquainted <br />Fancy will tint their wonder-paintings <br />Trees as men walking, wood-romances <br />Of goblins stalking in silky green, <br />Of milk-sheen froth upon the lace of hawthorn’s <br />Collar, pallor in the face of birchgirl. <br />So shall a homeless time, though dimly <br />Catch from afar (for soul is watchfull) <br />A sight of tree-delighted Eden.<br /><br />Clive Staples Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-future-of-forestry/
