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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
Tired
Morning
Poor
Ever
Nothing
Long
Lags
Lag
Bright

More quotes by 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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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.
Walter de La Mare
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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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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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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Walter de La Mare
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
Walter de La Mare