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

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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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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