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

More quotes by 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.
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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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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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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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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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 lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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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.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
Walter de La Mare