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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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
Soldiers
Snow
Soldier
Sky
World
Incessant
Northern
More quotes by Walter de La Mare
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.
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Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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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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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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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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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
Walter de La Mare
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
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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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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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
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
Walter de La Mare