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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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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
Bells
Rings
Neath
Quiet
Dreamland
Rest
Rams
Stars
Arch
Water
Arches
Pain
Bell
Waters

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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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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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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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Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.
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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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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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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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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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