The Little Bird

My dear Daddie bought a mansion
    For to bring my Mammie to,
In a hat with a long feather,
    And a trailing gown of blue;
And a company of fiddlers
    And a rout of maids and men
Danced the clock round to the morning,
    In a gay house-warming then.
And when all the guests were gone, and
    All was still as still can be,
In from the dark ivy hopped a
    Wee small bird: and that was Me.

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 Death-Dream

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Keys Of Morning

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Miss Loo

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

In Vain

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

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The Mother Bird

Through the green twilight of a hedge
I peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed,
And spied a bird upon a nest:
Two eyes she had beseeching me
Meekly and brave, and her brown breast
Throbb'd hot and quick above her heart;
And then she oped her dagger bill, -
'Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipe
At break of day; 'twas not a trill,
As falters through the quiet even;
But one sharp solitary note,
One desperate, fierce, and vivid cry
Of valiant tears, and hopeless joy,
One passionate note of victory:
Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked,
Smiling the smile the fool smiles best,
At the mother bird in the secret hedge
Patient upon her lonely nest.

Walter De La Mare

The Double

I curtseyed to the dovecote.
    I curtseyed to the well.
I twirled me round and round about,
    The morning sweets to smell.
When out I came from spinning so,
    Lo, betwixt green and blue
Was the ghost of me - a Fairy Child -
    A-dancing - dancing, too.

Nought was of her wearing
    That is the earth's array.
Her thistledown feet beat airy fleet
    Yet set no blade astray.
The gossamer shining dews of June
    Showed grey against the green;
Yet never so much as a bird-claw print
    Of footfall to be seen.

Fading in the mounting sun
    That image soon did pine.
Fainter than moonlight thinned the locks
    That shone as clear as mine.
Vanished! Vanished! O, sad it is
    To spin and spin - in vain;
And never to ...

Walter De La Mare

Sleepyhead

As I lay awake in the white moonlight
I heard a faint singing in the wood,
            "Out of bed,
            Sleepyhead,
            Put your white foot, now;
            Here are we
            Beneath the tree
            Singing round the root now."

I looked out of window, in the white moonlight,
The leaves were like snow in the wood -
            "Come away,
            Child, and play
            Light with the gnomies;
            In a mound,
            Green and round,
            That's where their home is.

            "Honey sweet,
            Curds to eat,
            Cream and frumenty,
            Shells and beads,
            Poppy seeds,
            You shall have plenty."

But, as soon as I stoo...

Walter De La Mare

The Child In The Story Awakes

The light of dawn rose on my dreams,
    And from afar I seemed to hear
In sleep the mellow blackbird call
    Hollow and sweet and clear.

I prythee, Nurse, my casement open,
    Wildly the garden peals with singing,
And hooting through the dewy pines
    The goblins all are winging.

O listen the droning of the bees,
    That in the roses take delight!
And see a cloud stays in the blue
    Like an angel still and bright.

The gentle sky is spread like silk,
    And, Nurse, the moon doth languish there,
As if it were a perfect jewel
    In the morning's soft-spun hair.

The greyness of the distant hills
    Is silvered in the lucid East,
See, now the sheeny-plumèd cock
    Wags haughtily his crest.

'O come you out...

Walter De La Mare

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

The Gnomies

As I lay awake in the white moonlight,
I heard a sweet singing in the wood -
        'Out of bed,
        Sleepyhead,
        Put your white foot now,
        Here are we,
        'Neath the tree,
        Singing round the root now!'

I looked out of window in the white moonlight,
The trees were like snow in the wood -
        'Come away
        Child and play,
        Light wi' the gnomies;
        In a mound,
        Green and round,
        That's where their home is!
        'Honey sweet,
        Curds to eat,
        Cream and frumènty,
        Shells and beads,
        Poppy seeds,
        You shall have plenty.'

But soon as I stooped in the dim moonlight
To put on my stocking and my shoe,
The sweet, swe...

Walter De La Mare