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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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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
Peace
Skill
Words
Findings
Death
Finding
Ends
Despair
Life
Skills
Spend
Winning
Sweeten
Dark
Consolation

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Now that cleverness was the fashion most people were clever - even perfect fools and cleverness after all was often only a bore: all head and no body
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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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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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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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
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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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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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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
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What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
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The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse. In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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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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