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

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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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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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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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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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And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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