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

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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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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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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare
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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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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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