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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
Wake
Boughs
Rose
Buds
Wind
Bud
Century
Winds
Break
Centuries
Beauty
March
Back
Wild
Men
Woods

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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone Nought but vast Sorrow was there The sweet cheat gone.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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?
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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.
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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
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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.
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The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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.
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Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
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Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
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All day long the door of the sub-conscious remains just ajar we slip through to the other side, and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Hi! handsome hunting man Fire your little gun. Bang! Now the animal is dead and dumb and done. Nevermore to peep again, creep again, leap again, Eat or sleep or drink again. Oh, what fun!
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We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
Walter de La Mare