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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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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
Poor
Ever
Nothing
Long
Lags
Lag
Bright
Tired
Morning

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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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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.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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