Quotes about timber, page 2
It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.
quote by John Millington Synge
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Forest Dies
Above the voices
of axe and saw.
Echoing loud and clear
through forest and glade.
'TIMBER! TIMBER! '
Call of the lumberjack.
To some the music of profit.
Others death's mournful wail.
An instant of silence.
Executed a tree topples.
A cracking twisting moan
rustle and swish of leaves.
The earth trembles.
Another noble resident
taken by man.
Taken without remorse.
[...] Read more
poem by Kurt Hearth
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Within the woodlands for M'lady Lucianne
Glosa
Within the woodlands flowery gladed
Beside the oak trees mossy moot
The shining grass blades timber shaded
Now do quiver underfoot.
William Barnes
Within the woodlands flowery gladed.
A lover and his lass embrace.
She was not to be persuaded
this was the time nor yet the place.
Beside the oak trees mossy moot
he begged and pleaded but in vain
she rejected his urgent suit
Her maidenhead she would retain
The shining grass blades timber shaded
[...] Read more
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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My Orcha'd In Linden Lea
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
[...] Read more
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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My Orcha'd in Linden Lea
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' ther vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
[...] Read more
poem by William Barnes
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First Encounter - Tan Sri Tiong Hiew King
Tan Sri Tiong Hiew King
he sizes me up to know whether i know
how rich a sarawakian can be
first me in the mid 80s at the Rimbunan Hijau office in Jalan Mission, Sibu. I was working with the Holiday Inn Kuching and was paying a courtesy call. Holiday Inn Kuching was then the only five star hotel in Kuching.
Tan Sri Datuk Sir Hiew-king Tiong (simplified Chinese: 张晓卿; traditional Chinese: 張曉卿; pinyin: Zhāng Xiǎoqīng) is the Malaysian Chinese founder and chairman of the Rimbunan Hijau Group, a timber company founded in 1975. Its overseas timber operations in Papua New Guinea is the largest in that country. He also has interests in logging operations in Russia.
Tan Sri Datuk Tiong resides in Sibu, a town in Sarawak, of Borneo island that belongs to Malaysia. With a reported net worth of about US$1.1 billion, Tiong is ranked by Forbes as the 840th richest person in the world.- Wikipedia
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Lookout Rock
The Timber Wolf's a wary beast,
As cautious as can be
And this young wolf was mighty pleased
At all that he could see...
His lookout rock gave him full view
Of front, back, left and right,
Conserving strength helped him get through,
That suited him just right...
Not many humans could survive
The coldness in the air,
Fur coats are fine, but who can thrive
With coldness everywhere?
Sometimes the days are twilight times,
The sun's a distant friend,
It's then each wolf more wisely climbs,
Its safety to defend...
The Timber Wolf endures it all,
It lives from day-to-day
[...] Read more
poem by Denis Martindale
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When One Door Closes Another Opens
She sold her house in outer suburbia where she had lived for many years
And she know that in months from now she will recall through the tears
The happy times she spent there when her children were young
There they laughed and played together and their nursery rhymes they sung.
The old home to be demolished never to be seen again
And of a thing of beauty only memories will remain
To make room for a car park something ugly in it's place
And the landscape will look uglier without one familiar face.
To get rid of her huge mortgage the one reason why she sold
And the house in need of repairs as most timber houses do when old
So she felt obliged to sell and to buy a cheaper house elsewhere
But she will recall her old home and the good times she had there.
When one door closes another opens this so happens to be true
And she will settle in her new home and find happiness there too
Still the old timber house on Bayview Road in her memory will remain
And in her dreams she will be visiting her erstwhile friends again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Old Mile-Tree
OLD coach-road West by Nor’-ward—
Old mile-tree by the track:
A dead branch pointing forward,
And a dead branch pointing back.
And still in clear-cut romans
On his hard heart he tells
The miles that were to fortune,
The miles from Bowenfels.
Old chief of Western timber!
A famous gum you’ve been.
Old mile-tree, I remember
When all your boughs were green.
There came three boyish lovers
When golden days begun;
There rode three boyish rovers
Towards the setting sun.
And Fortune smiled her fairest
And Fate to these was kind—
The truest, best and rarest,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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Brigalow Mick
A dandy old horsernan is Brigalow Mick-
Which his name, sir, is Michael O'Dowd -
Whatever he's riding, when timber is thick,
He is always in front of the crowd.
A few tangled locks that are fast turning white
Crown a physog. the colour of brick,
But as keen as a kestrel's-as bold and as bright -
Is the blue eye of Brigalow Mick.
He is Martin's head-stockman, on Black-Cattle Creek -
All the boys there are rare ones to ride -
But Mick is the 'daddy'; and far you may seek
Ere you find such an artist in hide.
He'll turn out a halter, or stockwhip can make,
As you've seldom cast eyes on before;
[...] Read more
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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