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Very old are the woods And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.

Walter de La Mare

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Walter de La Mare
Age: 83 †
Born: 1873
Born: April 25
Died: 1956
Died: June 22
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Charlton
London
Walter Ramal
Walter John de la Mare
Back
Wild
Men
Woods
Wake
Boughs
Rose
Buds
Wind
Bud
Century
Winds
Break
Centuries
Beauty
March

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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A lost but happy dream may shed its light upon our waking hours, and the whole day may be infected with the gloom of a dreary or sorrowful one yet of neither may we be able to recover a trace.
Walter de La Mare
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After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts - like a Chinese nest of boxes - oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front - in our ancestors, back and back until.
Walter de La Mare
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Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our life, whatever its defeats - is a never-ending unforeseen strangeness and adventure and mystery.
Walter de La Mare
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
Walter de La Mare
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
Walter de La Mare
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare
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Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.
Walter de La Mare
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But beauty vanishes beauty passes However rare rare it be And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?
Walter de La Mare
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His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, Rest, rest, and rest again.
Walter de La Mare
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
Walter de La Mare
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
Walter de La Mare
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
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Now that cleverness was the fashion most people were clever - even perfect fools and cleverness after all was often only a bore: all head and no body
Walter de La Mare
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end.
Walter de La Mare
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For beauty with sorrow Is a burden hard to be borne: The evening light on the foam, and the swans, there That music, remote, forlorn.
Walter de La Mare
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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
Walter de La Mare
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The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse. In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted.
Walter de La Mare