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

More quotes by 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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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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.
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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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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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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare