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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

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
Head
Perfect
Cleverness
Often
Bore
Body
Bores
Even
Fools
People
Clever
Fool
Fashion

More quotes by 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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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
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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
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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?
Walter de La Mare