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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.

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
Yesterday
Stuck
Fast
Poor

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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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.
Walter de La Mare
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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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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
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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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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.
Walter de La Mare
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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
Walter de La Mare
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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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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
Walter de La Mare
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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?
Walter de La Mare
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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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
Walter de La Mare
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare