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

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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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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, Rest, rest, and rest again.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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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.
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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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