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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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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
Doors
Secretly
Return
Slip
Side
Slips
Sides
Cat
Long
Easily
Door
Remains
Conscious
Ajar

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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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.
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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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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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.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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?
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