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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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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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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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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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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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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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A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone Nought but vast Sorrow was there The sweet cheat gone.
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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
Walter de La Mare
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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Walter de La Mare
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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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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Walter de La Mare