Walter De La Mare

Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day; Half asleep and half

The last of last words spoken is, Good-bye – The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge, The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing, The last blind rat to spurn the

Wide are the meadows of night, And daisies are shinng there, Tossing their lovely dews, Lustrous and fair; And through these sweet fields go, Wanderers amid the stars Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter,

One night as Dick lay half asleep, Into his drowsy eyes A great still light began to creep From out the silent skies. It was the lovely moon’s, for when He raised his dreamy

Ever, ever Stir and shiver The reeds and rushes By the river: Ever, ever, As if in dream, The lone moon’s silver Sleeks the stream. What old sorrow, What lost love, Moon, reeds, rushes,

It was the Great Alexander, Capped with a golden helm, Sate in the ages, in his floating ship, In a dead calm. Voices of sea-maids singing Wandered across the deep: The sailors labouring on

Tom told his dog called Tim to beg, And up at once he sat, His two clear amber eyes fixed fast, His haunches on his mat. Tom poised a lump of sugar on His

Three jolly Farmers Once bet a pound Each dance the others would Off the ground. Out of their coats They slipped right soon, And neat and nicesome Put each his shoon. One Two Three!

Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! Not one of these poor men who died But did within his soul believe That death for thee was glorified. Ever they watched it hovering near That

Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now. The rayless sun, Day’s journey done, Sheds its last ebbing light On fields

If I were Lord of Tartary, Myself, and me alone, My bed should be of ivory, Of beaten gold my throne; And in my court should peacocks flaunt, And in my forests tigers haunt,

When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies. When music sounds,

When Susan’s work was done, she’d sit With one fat guttering candle lit, And window opened wide to win The sweet night air to enter in; There, with a thumb to keep her place

While at her bedroom window once, Learning her task for school, Little Louisa lonely sat In the morning clear and cool, She slanted her small bead-brown eyes Across the empty street, And saw Death

“Once…Once upon a time…” Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen. Hers were those clear gray eyes You watch, and the story seems Told by their beautifulness

What lovely things Thy hand hath made: The smooth-plumed bird In its emerald shade, The seed of the grass, The speck of the stone Which the wayfaring ant Stirs and hastes on! Though I

Come, Death, I’d have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And Love a lad with broken wing; Apnd Pity, too; The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing. Ay, music

When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair her muffled words, And how she’d open her green eyes,

No breath of wind, No gleam of sun – Still the white snow Whirls softly down Twig and bough And blade and thorn All in an icy Quiet, forlorn. Whispering, rustling, Through the air

Three jolly gentlemen, In coats of red, Rode their horses Up to bed. Three jolly gentlemen Snored till morn, Their horses champing The golden corn. Three jolly gentlemen At break of day, Came clitter-clatter

Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I’m sure-sure-sure; I listened, I opened, I looked to left and right, But nought there was a stirring In the still dark