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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.

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
Manger
Hay
Dainty
Pulls
Summer
Gone
Another

More quotes by 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?
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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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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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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.
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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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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
Walter de La Mare
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Walter de La Mare