Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
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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