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Best Famous Walter De La Mare Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Walter De La Mare poems. This is a select list of the best famous Walter De La Mare poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Walter De La Mare poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Walter de la Mare poems.

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by Walter de la Mare |

A Song of Enchantment

 A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.
Widdershins turned I, singing it low, Watching the wild birds come and go; No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen Under the thick-thatched branches green.
Twilight came: silence came: The planet of Evening's silver flame; By darkening paths I wandered through Thickets trembling with drops of dew.
But the music is lost and the words are gone Of the song I sang as I sat alone, Ages and ages have fallen on me - On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.


by Walter de la Mare |

How Sleep the Brave

 Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! 
Not one of these poor men who died 
But did within his soul believe 
That death for thee was glorified.
Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! -- Heard and obeyed.
O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.


by Walter de la Mare |

Winter

 When icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
Tu-who; 
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


by Walter de la Mare |

Winter

 A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee, 
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey 
As the long moss upon the apple-tree; 
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose, 
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way 
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.


by Walter de la Mare |

The Widow

 Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey
Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom! She had no home, the world was all before her, She had no shelter.
Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot, "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish.
"Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me! "Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "Pity me Strangers! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!" Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.
On drove the chariot.
On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out; Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger, Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses; There, did the Traveller find her in the morning, GOD had releast her.


by Walter de la Mare |

Winter

 A DIAMOND glow of winter o’er the world:
Amid the chilly halo nigh the west
Flickers a phantom violet bloom unfurled
 Dim on the twilight’s breast.
Only phantasmal blooms but for an hour, A transient beauty; then the white stars shine Chilling the heart: I long for thee to flower, O bud of light divine.
But never visible to sense or thought The flower of Beauty blooms afar withdrawn; If in our being then we know it not, Or, knowing, it is gone.


by Walter de la Mare |

Good-bye

 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.
A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye, Shines into nothing the watcher's burnt-out candle, Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense, Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.
Love of its muted music breathes no sigh, Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning, Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden, Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.


by Walter de la Mare |

Alone

 The abode of the nightingale is bare,
Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air,
The fox howls from his frozen lair:
Alas, my loved one is gone,
I am alone:
It is winter.
Once the pink cast a winy smell, The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell, Light in effulgence of beauty fell: I am alone: It is winter.
My candle a silent fire doth shed, Starry Orion hunts o'erhead; Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead: Alas, my loved one is gone, I am alone; It is winter.


by Walter de la Mare |

All Thats Past

 Very old are the woods; 
And the buds that break 
Out of the brier's boughs, 
When March winds wake, 
So old with their beauty are-- 
Oh, no man knows 
Through what wild centuries 
Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks; And the rills that rise Where snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon.
Very old are we men; Our dreams are tales Told in dim Eden By Eve's nightingales; We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.


by Walter de la Mare |

The Huntsmen

 Three jolly gentlemen, 
In coats of red, 
Rode their horses 
Up to bed.
Three jolly gentlemen Snored till morn, Their horses champing The golden corn.
Three jolly gentlemen At break of day, Came clitter-clatter down the stairs And galloped away.