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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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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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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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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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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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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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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 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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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