See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies-- 'Remove, remove thy searching gaze, Innocent, of heaven's ways, Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright, On secrets hidden from sight.'
'Secrets,' sighs the night-wind, 'Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wail a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy.' 'Once, once...' the cricket shrills, And far and near the quiet fills With its tiny voice, and then Hush falls again.
Mute shadows creeping slow Mark how the hours go. Every stone is mouldering slow. And the least winds that blow Some minutest atom shake, Some fretting ruin make In roof and walls. How black it is Beneath these thick-boughed trees!
When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees, Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.
When music sounds, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes, Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face, With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place.
When music sounds, all that I was I am Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came; While from Time's woods break into distant song The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
After the songless rose of evening, Night quiet, dark, still, In nodding cavalcade advancing Starred the deep hill: You, in the valley standing, In your quiet wonder took All that glamour, peace, and mystery In one grave look. Beauty hid your naked body, Time dreamed in your bright hair, In your eyes the constellations Burned far and fair.
Roses are sweet to smell and see, And lilies on the stem; But rarer, stranger buds there be, And she was like to them.
The little moon that April brings, More lovely shade than light, That, setting, silvers lonely hills Upon the verge of night--
Close to the world of my poor heart So stole she, still and clear; Now that she's gone, O dark, and dark, The solitude--the fear.
The far moon maketh lovers wise In her pale beauty trembling down, Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes, A strangeness not their own. And, though they shut their lids to kiss, In starless darkness peace to win, Even on that secret world from this Her twilight enters in.
For all the grief I have given with words May now a few clear flowers blow, In the dust, and the heat, and the silence of birds, Where the lonely go.
For the thing unsaid that heart asked of me Be a dark, cool water calling--calling To the footsore, benighted, solitary, When the shadows are falling.
O, be beauty for all my blindness, A moon in the air where the weary wend, And dews burdened with loving-kindness In the dark of the end.
There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady.
Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet.
But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender.
Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady: Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady.
Shadow and light both strove to be The eight bell-ringers' company, As with his gliding rope in hand, Counting his changes, each did stand; While rang and trembled every stone, To music by the bell-mouths blown, Till the bright clouds that towered on high Seemed to re-echo cry with cry. Still swang the clappers to and fro, When, in the far-spread fields below, I saw a ploughman with his team Lift to the bells and fix on them His distant eyes, as if he would Drink in the utmost sound he could; While near him sat his children three, And in the green grass placidly Played undistracted on, as if What music earthly bells might give Could only faintly stir their dream, And stillness make more lovely seem. Soon night hid horses, children, all In sleep deep and ambrosial; Yet, yet it seemed from star to star, Welling now near, now faint and far, Those echoing bells rang on in dream, And stillness made even lovelier seem.
Walter de la Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist who lived from 1873 to 1956. He wrote across several genres, but is best remembered for his lyrical and haunting poetry. His poems frequently explore themes of childhood innocence, the passage of time, dreams, and the presence of the supernatural or uncanny. He often used simple, musical language and vivid imagery to evoke a sense of wonder and mystery. Many of his works are set in twilight or nocturnal landscapes, where the boundary between the real and the imagined becomes blurred. His collection "Peacock Pie" is a classic of children's poetry, while "The Listeners" is among his most famous single poems, known for its eerie atmosphere. He also wrote psychological horror stories and novels, such as "Memoirs of a Midget", which further explored themes of alienation and perception. He was a significant figure in English literature, admired by contemporaries like W. H. Auden and T. S. Eliot. He was appointed to the Order of Merit in 1953, a rare honor for a writer. His work continues to be anthologized and studied for its unique blend of the lyrical and the uncanny.
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