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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?

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
Passes
Lady
Rare
West
However
Beauty
Remember
Vanishes
Country
Crumble

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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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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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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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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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 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.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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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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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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.
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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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