Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare

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Walter John de la Mare (25 April 1873 – 22 June 1956) was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist. He is probably best remembered for his works for children, for his poem "The Listeners", and for a highly acclaimed selection of subtle psychological horror stories, amongst them "Seaton's Aunt" and "All Hallows".
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Off the Ground

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
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Fare Well

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
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The Huntsmen

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

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

"Sweep thy faint strings,
With thy long lean hand;
Downward the starry tapers burn,
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'What is the world,
O soldiers
It is I:
I, this incessant snow,    This northern sky;
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Nicholas Nye

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,
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John Mouldy

I spied John Mouldy in his celler,
Deep down twenty steps of stone;
In the dusk he sat
Smiling there all alone
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As I mused by the hearthside,
Puss said to me;"there burns the fire , man,and here sit we
Four walls around usagainst the cold air;and the latch drawn closeto the draughty stair
A roof o'er our headsstar-proof, moon immune,and ...
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If I were Lord of Tartary,
Myself, and me alone,
My bed should be of ivory,
Of beaten gold my throne;
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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,
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'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
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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
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Some One

Some one came
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
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Stir and
The reeds and
By the river:
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The Linnet

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