Some One

Some one came knocking
    At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
    I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
    I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a-stirring
    In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
    Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
    The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
    While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
    At all, at all, at all.

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 Englishman

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Isle Of Lone

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Ruin

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Reawakening

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

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Some One

Some one came knocking
    At my wee, small door;
Some one came knocking,
    I'm sure - sure - sure;
I listened, I opened,
    I looked to left and right,
But naught there was a-stirring
    In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
    Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
    The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
    While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.

Walter De La Mare

The Little Green Orchard

Some one is always sitting there,
        In the little green orchard;
    Even when the sun is high
    In noon's unclouded sky,
    And faintly droning goes
    The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there
        In the little green orchard.

Yes, when the twilight's falling softly
        In the little green orchard;
    When the grey dew distills
    And every flower-cup fills;
    When the last blackbird says,
    'What - what!' and goes her way - ssh!
I have heard voices calling softly
        In the little green orchard

Not that I am afraid of being there,
        In the little green orchard;
    Why, when the moon's been bright,
    Shedding her lonesome light,
    And moths like ghosties come,
   ...

Walter De La Mare

The Little Green Orchard

Some one is always sitting there,
                    In the little green orchard;
    Even when the sun is high
    In noon's unclouded sky,
    And faintly droning goes
    The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there,
                    In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight is falling softly
                    In the little green orchard;
    When the grey dew distils
    And every flower-cup fills;
    When the last blackbird says,
    "What - what!" and goes her way - s-sh!
I have heard voices calling softly
                    In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there,
                    In the little green orchard;
    Why, when the moon's been bright,
    Shedding her ...

Walter De La Mare

In Vain

I knocked upon thy door ajar,
While yet the woods with buds were grey;
Nought but a little child I heard
Warbling at break of day.

I knocked when June had lured her rose
To mask the sharpness of its thorn;
Knocked yet again, heard only yet
Thee singing of the morn.

The frail convolvulus had wreathed
Its cup, but the faint flush of eve
Lingered upon thy Western wall;
Thou hadst no word to give.

Once yet I came; the winter stars
Above thy house wheeled wildly bright;
Footsore I stood before thy door -
Wide open into night.

Walter De La Mare

The Ghost

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful,
Beyond all dreams to restore,
I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither.
And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I - once was my speech
Sweet as the bird's on the air,
When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Ay, and cold."
"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"
"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearned in vain."
"Long dead these to thine ..."

Silence. Still faint on the porch
Brake the flames of the stars.
In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night
In chaos of vacancy shone;
Nought but vast sorrow was there -
The sweet cheat gone.

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