Walter de la Mare

thumb|Look thy last on all things lovely,Every hour—let no nightSeal thy sense in deathly slumberTill to delightThou hast paid thy utmost blessing. 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. Quotes Slowly, silently, now the moonWalks the night in her silver shoon. Silver. 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. Silver. Here lies a most beautiful lady,Light of step and heart was she;I think she was the most beautiful ladyThat ever was in the West Country. An Epitaph. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;However rare—rare it be;And when I crumble, who will rememberThis lady of the West Country? An Epitaph. Look thy last on all things lovely,Every hour—let no nightSeal thy sense in deathly slumberTill to delightThou hast paid thy utmost blessing. Fare Well, st. 3 (1918). ‘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.’ The Ghost. A face peered. All the grey nightIn chaos of vacancy shone;Nought but vast sorrow was there—The sweet cheat gone. The Ghost. Do diddle di do,Poor Jim JayGot stuck fastIn Yesterday. Jim Jay. It's a very odd thing—As odd as can be—That whatever Miss T. eatsTurns into Miss T. Miss T. Three jolly huntsmen,In coats of red,Rode their horsesUp to bed. The Huntsmen. Bang! Now the animalIs dead and dumb and done.Nevermore to peep again, creep again, leap again,Eat or sleep or drink again, oh, what fun! Hi! Wonderful lovely there she sat,Singing the night away,All in the solitudinous seaOf that there lonely bay. Sam. For beauty with sorrowIs a burden hard to be borne:The evening light on the foam, and the swans, there;That music, remote, forlorn. The Old Summerhouse. Some one came knockingAt my wee, small door;Some one came knocking,I’m sure—sure—sure. Some One Came Knocking. Softly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dewOld Nod, the shepherd, goes. Nod. 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.” Nod. We wake and whisper awhile,But, the day gone by,Silence and sleep like fieldsOf amaranth lie. All That's Past. Oh, no man knowsThrough what wild centuriesRoves back the rose. All That's Past. Old Rover in his moss-greened houseMumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse. Summer Evening. Dobbin at manger pulls his hay:Gone is another summer’s day. Summer Evening. All but blindIn his chambered holeGropes for wormsThe four-clawed Mole. All But Blind. So, blind to SomeoneI must be. All But Blind. What lovely thingsThy hand hath made. The Scribe. “Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy;“Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine;“A junket of cream and a cranberry tartFor me,” says Jane. Bunches of Grapes. “A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay” Bunches of Grapes. Poor tired Tim! It’s sad for himHe lags the long bright morning through,Ever so tired of nothing to do. Tired Tim. ‘What is the world, O soldiers?It is I,I, this incessant snow,This northern sky. Napoleon. The Listeners (1912) "Is anybody there?" said the Traveler,Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grassesOf the forest's ferny floor. "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 spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still houseFrom 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. The Song of the Mad Prince 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 delightHath she for narrow bed;Life’s troubled bubble broken"?—That’s what I said. About Walter de la Mare The delicate, invisible web you woveThe inexplicable mystery of sound. T.S. Eliot, To Walter de la Mare. Or when the lawnIs pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts returnGently at twilight, gently go at dawn,The sad intangible who grieve and yearn... T.S. Eliot, To Walter de la Mare. Walter de la Mare's "The Listeners"-I will never forget that poem. 1979 interview in Conversations with Audre Lorde (2004) De la Mare’s poetry represents some of the finest, beautifully crafted, classical verse of the twentieth century.It is truly tragic that his poems remain largely neglected, forgotten as the world passed them by. Adam Sedia, "Neglected Gems: The Poetry of Walter de la Mare", ClassicalPoets.org (August 30, 2021) External links Author:Walter de la Mare Walter+De+la+Mare Walter de la Mare Category:Children's authors Category:Poets from England Category:Novelists from England Category:Short story writers from England Category:1873 births Category:1956 deaths Category:People from London