Some Cracking Firewood Poetry

These hardwoods burn well and slowly,
Ash, beech, hawthorn oak and holly.
Softwoods flare up quick and fine,
Birch, fir, hazel, larch and pine.
Elm and willow you’ll regret,
Chestnut green and sycamore wet.

Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year,
Chestnut’s only good they say,
If for logs ’tis laid away.
Make a fire of Elder tree,
Death within your house will be;
But ash new or ash old,
Is fit for a queen with crown of gold.

Birch and fir logs burn too fast,
Blaze up bright and do not last,
it is by the Irish said.
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread.
Elm wood burns like churchyard mould,
E’en the very flames are cold,
But ash green or ash brown
Is fit for a queen with golden crown.

Poplar gives a bitter smoke,
Fills your eyes and makes you choke,
Apple wood will scent your room.
Pear wood smells like flowers in bloom.
Oaken logs, if dry and old,
keep away the winter’s cold.
But ash wet or ash dry,
a king shall warm his slippers by.

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Logs to Burn, Logs to burn, Logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn,
Here’s a word to make you wise,
When you hear the woodman’s cries.

Never heed his usual tale,
That he has good logs for sale,
But read these lines and really learn,
The proper kind of logs to burn.

Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pine will smell,
But the sparks will fly.

Beech logs for Christmas time,
Yew logs heat well.
“Scotch” logs it is a crime,
For anyone to sell.
Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
If you cut them in the fall.

Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green.
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.

Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room.
Cherry logs across the dogs,
Smell like flowers in bloom.

But ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They’re worth their weight in gold.

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After the axe head has flashed
And the maple log is sawed,
He lingers on the hearth,
Anticipating light, for this sun

In wood is somehow in his blood,
As his eyes flicker clearly
Their spark in the thicket
Of a world not understood.

It is not only a golden
Living descended to wood
That the child’s struck match
Frees to dancing,

There are October’s odors
Veined into foliage, which a boy
And his man of flame
Exhale as smoke to the cold.

This story he thinks, a blond
Prince lost in a forest,
Is as tragic and old
As a chemical formula.

Not only fire descended
To water and fiber, but wonder
At the union he senses,
That to worm-loam limbed

With branching antennas, sun should
Come through the clearness,
To maple leaves and apples,
Coloring with sugar.

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We hope that you have enjoyed the poems and that maybe they have ‘kindled’ your interest in a real wood fire or a log burning stove. If so then please consider ordering some firewood from our Log Shop.

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