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

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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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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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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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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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.
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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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A harvest mouse goes scampering by, With silver claws and silver eye And moveless fish in the water gleam, By silver reeds in a silver stream.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
Walter de La Mare