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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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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
Like
Lies
Ghosts
Behinds
Ancestors
Behind
Ancestor
Lying
Boxes
Horde
Death
Ghost
Acorns
Back
Chinese
Nest
Every
Fronts
Oaks
Men
Front
Nests

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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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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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
Walter de La Mare
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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