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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.

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
Moon
Walks
Night
Silently
Slowly
Silver

More quotes by 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.
Walter de La Mare
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Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our life, whatever its defeats - is a never-ending unforeseen strangeness and adventure and mystery.
Walter de La Mare
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
Walter de La Mare
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
Walter de La Mare
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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
Walter de La Mare
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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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!
Walter de La Mare
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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
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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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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare