Thule

If thou art sweet as they are sad
Who on the shores of Time's salt sea
Watch on the dim horizon fade
Ships bearing love to night and thee;

If past all beacons Hope hath lit
In the dark wanderings of the deep
They who unwilling traverse it
Dream not till dawn unseal their sleep;

Ah, cease not in thy winds to mock
Us, who yet wake, but cannot see
Thy distant shores; who at each shock
Of the waves' onset faint for thee!

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

Truce

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

The Little Green Orchard

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Mima

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

Foreboding

Walter De La Mare, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Never More, Sailor

Never more, Sailor,
Shalt thou be
Tossed on the wind-ridden,
Restless sea.
Its tides may labour;
All the world
Shake 'neath that weight
Of waters hurled:
But its whole shock
Can only stir
Thy dust to a quiet
Even quieter.
Thou mock'd'st at land
Who now art come
To such a small
And shallow home;
Yet bore the sea
Full many a care
For bones that once
A sailor's were.
And though the grave's
Deep soundlessness
Thy once sea-deafened
Ear distress,
No robin ever
On the deep
Hopped with his song
To haunt thy sleep.

Walter De La Mare

The Tryst

Flee into some forgotten night and be
Of all dark long my moon-bright company:
Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come,
There, out of all remembrance, make our home:
Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair,
Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chair
Wherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound,
Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound.
Perchance Leviathan of the deep sea
Would lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me,
There of your beauty we would joyance make -
A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake:
Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire,
Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre,
Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space,
Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace,
Where two might happy be - just you and I -
Lost in the uttermost of Eternity.
Think! In...

Walter De La Mare

Sunk Lyonesse

In sea-cold Lyonesse,
    When the Sabbath eve shafts down
On the roofs, walls, belfries
    Of the foundered town,
The Nereids pluck their lyres
    Where the green translucency beats,
And with motionless eyes at gaze
    Make minstrelsy in the streets.

The ocean water stirs
    In salt-worn casemate and porch
Plies the blunt-snouted fish
    With fire in his skull for torch.
And the ringing wires resound;
    And the unearthly lovely weep,
In lament of the music they make
    In the sullen courts of sleep.

Whose marble flowers bloom for aye,
    And - lapped by the moon-guiled tide -
Mock their carver with heart of stone,
    Caged in his stone-ribbed side.

Walter De La Mare

Foreboding

Thou canst not see him standing by -
Time - with a poppied hand
Stealing thy youth's simplicity,
Even as falls unceasingly
His waning sand.

He will pluck thy childish roses, as
Summer from her bush
Strips all the loveliness that was;
Even to the silence evening has
Thy laughter hush.

Thy locks too faint for earthly gold,
The meekness of thine eyes,
He will darken and dim, and to his fold
Drive, 'gainst the night, thy stainless, old
Innocencies;

Thy simple words confuse and mar,
Thy tenderest thoughts delude,
Draw a long cloud athwart thy star,
Still with loud timbrels heaven's far
Faint interlude.

Thou canst not see; I see, dearest;
O, then, yet patient be,
Though love refuse thy heart all rest,
Though...

Walter De La Mare

Night

All from the light of the sweet moon
Tired men lie now abed;
Actionless, full of visions, soon
Vanishing, soon sped.

The starry night aflock with beams
Of crystal light scarce stirs:
Only its birds - the cocks, the streams,
Call 'neath heaven's wanderers.

All silent; all hearts still;
Love, cunning, fire fallen low:
When faint morn straying on the hill
Sighs, and his soft airs flow.

Walter De La Mare

To My Dream-Love.

Where art thou, oh! my Beautiful? Afar
    I seek thee sadly, till the day is done,
    And o'er the splendour of the setting sun,
Cold, calm, and silvery, floats the evening star;
    Where art thou? Ah! where art thou, hid in light
    That haunts me, yet still wraps thee from my sight?

Not wholly--ah! not wholly--still Love's eyes
    Trace thy dim beauty through the mystic veil,
    Like the young moon that glimmers faint and pale,
At noontide through the sun-web of the skies;
    But ah! I ope mine arms, and thou art gone,
    And only Memory knows where thou hast shone.

Night--Night the tender, the compassionate,
    Binds thee, gem-like, amid her raven hair;
    I dream--I see--I feel that thou art there--
And stand all weeping at Sleep's golden ...

Walter R. Cassels