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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.

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
Made
Things
Hath
Lovely
Hand
Hands

More quotes by 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.
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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The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse. In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
Walter de La Mare
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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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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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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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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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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Hi! handsome hunting man Fire your little gun. Bang! Now the animal is dead and dumb and done. Nevermore to peep again, creep again, leap again, Eat or sleep or drink again. Oh, what fun!
Walter de La Mare
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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
Walter de La Mare
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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.
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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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
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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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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