Walter de la Mare

(1873 - 1958 / Kent / England)

Walter de la Mare Poems

41. Sleep 3/30/2010
42. Snow 1/3/2003
43. Some One 1/1/2004
44. Song of the Mad Prince 11/13/2015
45. Sotto Voce 3/30/2010
46. Sunk Lyonesse 1/3/2003
47. Suppose 3/30/2010
48. Tartary 1/1/2004
49. The Birthnight 12/3/2014
50. The Children Of Stare 3/30/2010
51. The Corner Stone 3/30/2010
52. The Empty House 3/30/2010
53. The Fly 3/30/2010
54. The Fool Rings His Bells (MOTLEY) 1/3/2003
55. The Ghost 1/3/2003
56. The Huntsmen 1/3/2003
57. The Keys Of Morning 1/3/2003
58. The Linnet 3/30/2010
59. The Listeners 1/3/2003
60. The Market-Place 3/30/2010
61. The Mocking Fairy 1/3/2003
62. The Moth 3/30/2010
63. The Mother Bird 10/23/2015
64. The Night-Swans 3/2/2015
65. The Old Men 3/30/2010
66. The Pigs And The Charcoal-Burner 3/30/2010
67. The Remonstrance 1/3/2003
68. The Ruin 3/30/2010
69. The Scarecrow 3/30/2010
70. The Scribe 1/3/2003
71. The Seas Of England 3/30/2010
72. The Sleeper 1/3/2003
73. The Song Of Finis 1/3/2003
74. The Song Of Shadows 1/3/2003
75. The Spirit Of Air 1/3/2003
76. The Strangers 3/30/2010
77. The Sunken Garden 3/30/2010
78. The Three Strangers 3/30/2010
79. The Titmouse 3/30/2010
80. The Tryst 3/30/2010
Best Poem of Walter de la Mare

The Listeners

"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 ...

Read the full of The Listeners

November

THERE is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,

[Hata Bildir]