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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.

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
Herds
Angels
Likely
Angel
Meet
Strays
Common
Thickets
Men
Herd
Wolves

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.
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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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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
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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.
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.
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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
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
Walter de La Mare