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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
More quotes by Walter de La Mare
What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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.
Walter de La Mare
Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
Walter de La Mare
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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
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
It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare
Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare
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
An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
Walter de La Mare
So, blind to Someone I must be.
Walter de La Mare
Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
Walter de La Mare
What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Walter de La Mare
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
All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare
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
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
Walter de La Mare
As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
Walter de La Mare
Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
Walter de La Mare