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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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.
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.
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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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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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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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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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
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Walter de La Mare