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Sad, Walter de la Mare, in English Clear filters

SadWalter de la Mare

An Epitaph

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?
SadWalter de la Mare

Spring

Once when my life was young, I, too, with Spring's bright face By mine, walked softly along, Pace to his pace. Then burned his crimson may, Like a clear flame outspread, Arching our happy way: Then would he shed Strangely from his wild face Wonderful light on me-- Like hounds that keen in chase Their quarry see. Oh, sorrow now to know What shafts, what keenness cold His are to pierce me through, Now that I'm old.
SadWalter de la Mare

Faithless

The words you said grow faint; The lamp you lit burns dim; Yet, still be near your faithless friend To urge and counsel him. Still with returning feet To where life's shadows brood, With steadfast eyes made clear in death Haunt his vague solitude. So he, beguiled with earth, Yet with its vain things vexed, Keep even to his own heart unknown Your memory unperplexed.
SadWalter de la Mare

Old Ben

Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite, Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone. He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees. Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky. He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blow Whistling in his casement, And the rain drip thro'.
SadWalter de la Mare

Estranged

No one was with me there-- Happy I was--alone; Yet from the sunshine suddenly A joy was gone. A bird in an empty house Sad echoes makes to ring, Flitting from room to room On restless wing: Till from its shades he flies, And leaves forlorn and dim The narrow solitudes So strange to him. So, when with fickle heart I joyed in the passing day, A presence my mood estranged Went grieved away.
SadWalter de la Mare

April Moon

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.

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