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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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
Shall
Eyes
Lying
Assail
Eye
Shades
Shade
Mines
Mine
Darkness
More quotes by Walter de La Mare
The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.
Walter de La Mare
It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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
Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
Walter de La Mare
Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
Walter de La Mare
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
Walter de La Mare
Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare
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.
Walter de La Mare
What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
Walter de La Mare
All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare
Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
Walter de La Mare
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
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
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
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.
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
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
