Walter de la Mare

Three jolly Farmers Once bet a pound Each dance the others would Off the ground.
Out of their coats They slipped right soon,
And neat and nicesome Put each his shoon.
One—Two—Three!

When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes,
Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs;
How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me?
Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?

Three jolly gentlemen,
In coats of red,
Rode their horses Up to bed.
Three jolly gentlemen Snored till morn

In sea-cold Lyonesse,
When the Sabbath eve shafts
On the roofs, walls,
Of the foundered town,

"Sweep thy faint strings,
Musician,
With thy long lean hand;
Downward the starry tapers burn,

'What is the world,
O soldiers?
It is I:
I, this incessant snow

Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,

I spied John Mouldy in his celler,
Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat
Smiling there all alone.

As I mused by the hearthside,
Puss said to me;"
there burns the fire , man,
and here sit we.

If I were Lord of Tartary,
Myself, and me alone,
My bed should be of ivory,
Of beaten gold my throne;

There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was

'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…

The last of last words spoken is,
Good-bye -The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,
The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,
The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.

Some one came
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;

Ever,
Stir and
The reeds and
By the river:

Upon this leafy
With thorns and roses in it,
Flutters a thing of light,
A twittering Linnet.

Tom told his dog called Tim to beg,
And up at once he sat,
His two clear amber eyes fixed fast,
His haunches on his mat.

Come,
Death,
I'd have a word with thee;
And thou, poor Innocency;

Speak not — whisper not;
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;
Softly on the evening hour,
Secret herbs their spices shower,

All winter through I bow my headbeneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snowand blows me black again;
at midnight 'neath a maze of starsI flame with glittering rime,
and stand above the stubble, stiffas mail at…

Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam…

It's a very odd thing -  As odd can be -That whatever Miss T eats  Turns into Miss T.;
Porridge and apples,  Mince, muffins and mutton,
Jam, junket, jumbles -  Not a rap, not a
It matters; the moment  They're out of her plate

I was at peace until you came And set a careless mind aflame;
I lived in quiet; cold, content;
All longing in safe banishment,
Until your ghostly lips and eyes Made wisdom unwise.

That one, alone,
Who's dared and
To seek the Magic Wonderstone,
No fear, or care,