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

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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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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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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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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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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?
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare