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

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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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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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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 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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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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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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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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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.
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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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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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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.
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