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

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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.
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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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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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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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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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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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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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.
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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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!
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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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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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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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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
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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
Walter de La Mare