Walter de La Mare Quotes
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As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.
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Three jolly huntsmen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed.
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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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Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
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Lear, Macbeth. Mercutio – they live on their own as it were. The newspapers are full of them, if we were only the Shakespeares to see it. Have you ever been in a Police Court? Have you ever watched tradesmen behind their counters? My soul, the secrets walking in the streets! You jostle them at every corner. There's a Polonius in every first-class railway carriage, and as many Juliets as there are boarding-schools. ... How inexhaustibly rich everything is, if you only stick to life.
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What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
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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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So, blind to Someone I must be.
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What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
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All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
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It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.
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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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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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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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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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Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. 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: Ay, 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.
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As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.
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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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When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes.
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When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovelier things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies. When music sounds, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes, Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face, With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place. When music sounds, all that I was I am Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came; And from Time's woods break into distant song The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
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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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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.
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Do diddle di do, Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.
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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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The only catalogue of this world's goods that really counts is that which we keep in the silence of the mind.
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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.
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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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Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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