Walter de la Mare’s “All That’s Past” meditates on how much deep time lies behind the ordinary world. The woods, the briar buds, and the rose are not just lovely; they seem to carry an almost unknowable antiquity, reaching back through “wild centuries.” Brooks and melting snowmelt sing a history so long that each drop feels as wise as Solomon. Even human dreams are old, imagined as stories first told in Eden by Eve’s nightingales. The speaker seems full of quiet awe and a gentle melancholy, aware that human waking life is brief—a whisper before silence and sleep return. The mood is hushed, dreamy, and reverent, as if the past is not really gone but still moving beneath every living thing.
All That's Past — Summary
Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar'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.