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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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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
Beauty
Forlorn
Light
Foam
Music
Swans
Hard
Borne
Remote
Evening
Burden
Sorrow

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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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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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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
Walter de La Mare
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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He got out of bed and peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted.
Walter de La Mare