The World Of Dream

Now, through the dusk
With muffled bell
The Dustman comes
    The World to tell,
Night's elfin lanterns
    Burn and gleam
In the twilight, wonderful
    World of Dream.

Hollow and dim
    Sleep's boat doth ride,
Heavily still
    At the waterside.
Patter, patter,
    The children come,
Yawning and sleepy,
    Out of the gloom.

Like droning bees
    In a garden green,
Over the thwarts
    They clamber in.
And lovely Sleep
    With long-drawn oar
Turns away
    From the whispering shore.

Over the water
    Like roses glide
Her hundreds of passengers
    Packed inside,
To where in her garden
    Tremble and gleam
The harps and lamps
    Of the World of Dream.

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

Summer Evening

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Sam

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

To E.T.: 1917

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Ride-By-Nights

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

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Dream-Song

    Sunlight, moonlight,
    Twilight, starlight -
Gloaming at the close of day,
    And an owl calling,
    Cool dews falling
In a wood of oak and may.

    Lantern-light, taper-light,
    Torchlight, no-light:
Darkness at the shut of day,
    And lions roaring,
    Their wrath pouring
In wild waste places far away.

    Elf-light, bat-light,
    Touchwood-light and toad-light,
And the sea a shimmering gloom of grey,
    And a small face smiling
    In a dream's beguiling
In a world of wonders far away.

Walter De La Mare

The Unfinished Dream

Rare-sweet the air in that unimagined country -
    My spirit had wandered far
From its weary body close-enwrapt in slumber
    Where its home and earth-friends are;
A milk-like air - and of light all abundance;
    And there a river clear
Painting the scene like a picture on its bosom,
    Green foliage drifting near.

No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward,
    Fish, nor beast, nor bird,
Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit,
    Then shrill small voices I heard.

And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folk
    With faces strangely fair,
Talking their unearthly scattered talk together,
    A bind of green-grasses in their hair,

Marvellously gentle, feater far than children,
    In gesture, mien and speech,
...

Walter De La Mare

Sleep

Men all, and birds, and creeping beasts,
When the dark of night is deep,
From the moving wonder of their lives
Commit themselves to sleep.

Without a thought, or fear, they shut
The narrow gates of sense;
Heedless and quiet, in slumber turn
Their strength to impotence.

The transient strangeness of the earth
Their spirits no more see:
Within a silent gloom withdrawn,
They slumber in secrecy.

Two worlds they have - a globe forgot
Wheeling from dark to light;
And all the enchanted realm of dream
That burgeons out of night.

Walter De La Mare

I Met At Eve

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep,
His was a still and lovely face,
He wandered through a valley steep
    Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender,
About his brows a poppy-wreath
Burned like dim coals, and everywhere
    The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
    Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,
    And witch the moon with muffled calls.

Upwelling from his shadowy springs
Sweet waters shake a trembling sound,
There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings,
    There hath his web the silkworm wound....

Walter De La Mare

Voices

Who is it calling by the darkened river
Where the moss lies smooth and deep,
And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,
Silent and vague in sleep,
And the bright-heeled constellations pass
In splendour through the gloom;
Who is it calling o'er the darkened river
    In music, "Come!"?

Who is it wandering in the summer meadows
Where the children stoop and play
In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning
The guileless hours away?
Who touches their bright hair? who puts
A wind-shell to each cheek,
Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,
    "Seek! seek!"?

Who is it watching in the gathering twilight
When the curfew bird hath flown
On eager wings, from song to silence,
To its darkened nest alone?
Who takes for brightening eyes the s...

Walter De La Mare

Nightfall

The last light fails - that shallow pool of day!
The coursers of the dark stamp down to drink,
Arch their wild necks, lift their wild heads and neigh;
Their drivers, gathering at the water-brink,
With eyes ashine from out their clustering hair,
Utter their hollow speech, or gaze afar,
Rapt in irradiant reverie, to where
Languishes, lost in light, the evening star.

Come the wood-nymphs to dance within the glooms,
Calling these charioteers with timbrels' din;
Ashen with twilight the dark forest looms
O'er the nocturnal beasts that prowl within
"O glory of beauty which the world makes fair!"
Pant they their serenading on the air.

Sound the loud hooves, and all abroad the sky
The lusty charioteers their stations take;
Planet to planet do the sweet Love...

Walter De La Mare