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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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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
Worms
Hole
Holes
Blind
Four
Clawed
Mole
Moles

More quotes by Walter de La Mare

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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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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Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.
Walter de La Mare
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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
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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?
Walter de La Mare
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
Walter de La Mare
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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
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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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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
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
Walter de La Mare
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Walter de La Mare
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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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
Walter de La Mare
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
Walter de La Mare