Walter de la Mare Quotes

33 Quotes Sorted by Search Results (Descending)

About Walter de la Mare

Walter John de la Mare, OM, CH (April 25, 1873 – June 22, 1956) was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist. Many of his poems and stories were for children, though he believed that there is no such thing as a good poem for children, only a good poem that children can understand.

Born: April 25th, 1873

Died: June 22nd, 1956

Categories: Children's authors, English poets, English novelists, English short story writers, 1950s deaths

Quotes: 33 sourced quotes total (includes 2 about)

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"Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said.
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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.
Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country.
Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
‘What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.
So, blind to Someone I must be.
The delicate, invisible web you wove The inexplicable mystery of sound.
Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare—rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?
Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer’s day.
All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Some one came knocking, I’m sure—sure—sure.
We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
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.”
What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
“A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay”
“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy; “Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine; “A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me,” says Jane.
Or when the lawn Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, The sad intangible who grieve and yearn...
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!
Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
Wonderful lovely there she sat, Singing the night away, All in the solitudinous sea Of that there lonely bay.
Poor tired Tim! It’s sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.
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.
"Is anybody there?" said the Traveler, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor.
‘Who knocks?’ ‘I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.’
Who said "Peacock Pie"? The old king to the sparrow: Who said "Crops are ripe"? Rust to the harrow. Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? Sexton to willow. Who said, "Green dusk for dream?" Moss for a pillow. Who said, "All Time’s delight Hath she for narrow bed; Life’s troubled bubble broken"?— That’s what I said.
It's a very odd thing&mdas; As odd as can be— That whatever Miss T. eats Turns into Miss T.
A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there— The sweet cheat gone.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour—let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.

End Walter de la Mare Quotes