Walter de la Mare
Sir Walter de la Mare was born in Charlton, Kent, in the south of England, of well-to-do parents. His father, James Edward Delamaere, was an official of the Bank of England. His mother, Lucy Sophia (Browning) Delamare, was related to the poet Robert Browning. He was educated in London at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School, which he left at age 16. From 1890 to 1908 he worked in London in the accounting department of the Anglo-American Oil Company. His career as a writer started from about 1895 and he continued to publish to the end of his life. His first published story, 'Kismet' (1895), appeared in the Sketch under the pseudonym Walter Ramal.
In 1908 de la Mare was awarded a ... more »
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Walter de la Mare Poems
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor;
Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees;
Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure;
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.
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;
A Song of Enchantment
A song of Enchantment I sang me there, In a green-green wood, by waters fair, Just as the words came up to me I sang it under the wild wood tree.
Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon;
When the Rose is Faded
When the rose is faded, Memory may still dwell on Her beauty shadowed, And the sweet smell gone.
All That's Past
Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake,
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 mildewed rye.
If I were Lord of Tartary, Myself, and me alone, My bed should be of ivory, Of beaten gold my throne;
There is wind where the rose was, Cold rain where sweet grass was, And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep
When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs;
Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of ...