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

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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 but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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