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

More quotes by 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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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 a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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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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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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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.
Walter de La Mare