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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.

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
Able
Neither
Infected
Whole
Hours
Sorrowful
Happy
Dreary
Upon
Recover
Lost
Gloom
Dream
Trace
Light
Shed
May
Waking

More quotes by 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?
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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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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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.
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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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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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
Walter de La Mare
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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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The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.
Walter de La Mare