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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
Hay
Dainty
Pulls
Summer
Gone
Another
Manger

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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.
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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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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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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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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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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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We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
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.
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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.
Walter de La Mare