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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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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
Silver
Reeds
Fish
Gleam
Fishes
Claws
Goes
Mouse
Eye
Mice
Water
Harvest
Stream
Streams

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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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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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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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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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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
Walter de La Mare