John Mouldy

I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,
Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat a-smiling,
    Smiling there alone.

He read no book, he snuffed no candle;
The rats ran in, the rats ran out;
And far and near, the drip of water
    Went whisp'ring about.

The dusk was still, with dew a-falling,
I saw the Dog-star bleak and grim,
I saw a slim brown rat of Norway
    Creep over him.

I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,
Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat a-smiling,
    Smiling there alone.

Walter De La Mare

Walter De La Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and his poem "The Listeners". Born in 1873 in Charlton, Kent, De La Mare's unique blend of haunting, dreamlike imagery and masterful command of language earned him a lasting place in English literature. He was awarded the Order of Merit in 1953, and his works continue to be celebrated for their ethereal and evocative quality.

Walter De La Mare

The Night-Swans

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Voices

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Mistletoe

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Ghost

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

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Lob Lie By The Fire

He squats by the fire
    On his three-legged stool,
When all in the house
    With slumber are full.

And he warms his great hands,
    Hanging loose from each knee.
And he whistles as soft
    As the night wind at sea.

For his work now is done;
    All the water is sweet;
He has turned each brown loaf,
    And breathed magic on it.

The milk in the pan,
    And the bacon on beam
He has "spelled" with his thumb,
    And bewitched has the dream.

Not a mouse, not a moth,
    Not a spider but sat,
And quaked as it wondered
    What next he'd be at.

But his heart, O, his heart -
    It belies his great nose;
And at gleam of his eye
    Not a soul would suppose

He had stooped with great thum...

Walter De La Mare

Cumberland

The old, old King of Cumberland
    Awoke with bristling beard -
Crouched listening in the darkness
    To a sound that he had heard.

He leaned upon his foursquare bed,
    His thumb beneath his chin;
Hearkening after that which had stirred
    The dream that he was in.

The old, old King of Cumberland
    Muttered, "Twas not the sea,
Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks,
    That wakened me.

"Thunder from midmost night it was not;
    For yonder at the bars
Burn to their summer setting her
    Clear constellated stars."

The old, old King of Cumberland
    Mused yet, "Rats ever did
Rove from their holes, and clink my spurs,
    And gnaw my coverlid.

"Oft hath a little passing breeze
    Along this valance stirr...

Walter De La Mare

The Tailor

Few footsteps stray when dusk droops o'er
The tailor's old stone-lintelled door:
There sits he stitching half asleep,
Beside his smoky tallow dip.
'Click, click,' his needle hastes, and shrill
Cries back the cricket 'neath the sill.
Sometimes he stays, and o'er his thread
Leans sidelong his old tousled head;
Or stoops to peer with half-shut eye
When some strange footfall echoes by;
Till clearer gleams his candle's spark
Into the dusty summer dark.
Then from his crosslegs he gets down,
To find how dark the evening's grown;
And hunched-up in his door he'll hear
The cricket whistling crisp and clear;
And so beneath the starry grey
Will mutter half a seam away.

Walter De La Mare

The Ogre

'Tis moonlight on Trebarwith Vale,
    And moonlight on an Ogre keen,
Who prowling hungry through the dale
    A lone cottage hath seen.

Small with thin smoke ascending up
    Three casements and a door: -
The Ogre eager is to sup,
    And here seems dainty store.

Sweet as a larder to a mouse,
    So to him staring down,
Seemed the sweet-windowed moonlit house,
    With jasmine overgrown.

He snorted, as the billows snort
    In darkness of the night,
Betwixt his lean locks tawny-swart,
    He glowered on the sight.

Into the garden sweet with peas
    He put his wooden shoe,
And bending back the apple trees
    Crept covetously through;

Then, stooping, with an impious eye
    Stared through the lattice smal...

Walter De La Mare

All But Blind

All but blind
    In his chambered hole
Gropes for worms
    The four-clawed Mole.

All but blind
    In the evening sky
The hooded Bat
    Twirls softly by.

All but blind
    In the burning day
The Barn-Owl blunders
    On her way.

And blind as are
    These three to me,
So, blind to Some-one
    I must be.

Walter De La Mare

Summer Evening

The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair
Mews at his knee for dainty fare;
Old Rover in his moss-greened house
Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse
In the dewy fields the cattle lie
Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay:
Gone is another summer's day.

Walter De La Mare