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.
Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers. - Walter De La Mare
Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
- Walter De La Mare
An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity. - Walter De La Mare
An hour's terror is better than a lifetime of timidity.
What lovely things Thy hand hath made. - Walter De La Mare
What lovely things Thy hand hath made.
Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels. - Walter De La Mare
Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon. - Walter De La Mare
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.
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 f… - Walter De La Mare
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 f…
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour - Walter De La Mare
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour
What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was. - Walter De La Mare
What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.
Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our li… - Walter De La Mare
Without imagination of the one kind or of the other, mortal existence is indeed a dreary and prosaic business... Illumined by the imagination, our li…
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