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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.

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
Firsts
Bruises
Human
Ordered
Humans
Afterwards
First
Slowly
Blow
Works
Mercifully
Brain
Hours
Bruise

More quotes by 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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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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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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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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.
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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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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.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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.
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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