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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
Chaos
Sorrow
Peered
Sweet
Nought
Gone
Vacancy
Face
Shone
Faces
Cheat
Night
Grey
Vast

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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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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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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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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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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.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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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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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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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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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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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.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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