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

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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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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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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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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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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.
Walter de La Mare