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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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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
Night
Grey
Vast
Chaos
Sorrow
Peered
Sweet
Nought
Gone
Vacancy
Face
Shone
Faces
Cheat
More quotes by Walter de La Mare
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
What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
Walter de La Mare
God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
Walter de La Mare
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
Walter de La Mare
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
Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
Walter de La Mare
All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare
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
We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
Walter de La Mare
What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Walter de La Mare
As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
Walter de La Mare
Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.
Walter de La Mare
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
Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
Walter de La Mare
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
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
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
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
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
What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
