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Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare

1873–1956 · lived 83 years GB GB

Walter de la Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist. He is best known for his lyrical poetry, which often explores themes of childhood innocence, the supernatural, dreams, and the passage of time. His work is characterized by its musicality, delicate imagery, and a sense of wonder and melancholy. De la Mare also wrote significant prose, including ghost stories and novels for children, demonstrating a versatile imagination that bridged the adult and child's perspective.

n. 1873-04-25, Charlton · m. 1956-06-22, Twickenham

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Silver

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
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Bio

Identification and basic context

Walter John de la Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist. He is celebrated for his evocative and lyrical verse, often tinged with a sense of mystery and the supernatural. He wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Born in Charlton, Kent, de la Mare's early life was marked by the death of his father when he was young. He received his education at St. Paul's School in London. Following his schooling, he began working as a clerk for the Anglo-American Oil Company, a position he held for many years while simultaneously pursuing his literary career. His childhood experiences and his imaginative inner world were significant influences, often manifesting in his later writings.

Literary trajectory

De la Mare's literary career began with the publication of poems in magazines. His first collection of poetry, "Songs of Childhood," was published in 1902. He gained wider recognition with "The Listeners and Other Poems" (1912), which solidified his reputation as a significant poet. Throughout his career, he continued to publish poetry, short stories (often with supernatural themes), and novels, including notable works for children like "The Three Mulla-Mulgars" (1910). He also worked as a critic and reviewer.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Major works include "Songs of Childhood" (1902), "The Listeners and Other Poems" (1912), "Collected Poems 1901-1918" (1920), and "Desert Islands and Other Poems" (1930). His prose includes "Memoirs of a Midget" (1921) and "The Return" (1910). His poetry is characterized by its musicality, delicate and often exquisite imagery, and a consistent exploration of themes such as childhood, dreams, the uncanny, the afterlife, nature, and the passage of time. His style is refined, lyrical, and often melancholic, with a distinct rhyming structure and meter, though he also experimented with freer forms. His poetic voice is often one of gentle observation, tinged with a profound sense of mystery and wonder.

Cultural and historical context

De la Mare wrote during a period of significant literary change, straddling the late Victorian era, the Edwardian period, and the modernist movement. While not directly aligned with a specific movement, his work shares affinities with Symbolism in its evocation of mood and suggestion. His poetry often served as an escape from the increasingly industrialized and materialistic world, offering a contemplative and imaginative alternative. He maintained a wide circle of literary acquaintances.

Personal life

Walter de la Mare married Elsie Frances King. They had four children. He was known for his gentle and somewhat reserved personality. His long career as a clerk provided financial stability, allowing him to dedicate himself to writing. His deep interest in the spiritual and the unseen world is evident throughout his work.

Recognition and reception

De la Mare received considerable recognition during his lifetime, including the Order of Merit in 1948. His poetry was widely admired for its beauty and craftsmanship, and he was considered one of the leading poets of his generation. His collections were popular, and his works for children also found an appreciative audience. He was respected both by the public and the academic literary community.

Influences and legacy

He was influenced by earlier poets like Christina Rossetti, William Blake, and perhaps even some aspects of Romantic poetry. His own work has influenced subsequent generations of poets, particularly those interested in lyrical expression, the supernatural, and the exploration of childhood. His distinctive voice and thematic concerns have secured his place in the canon of 20th-century English poetry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often focus on the dreamlike quality of his poetry, its exploration of thresholds between the known and the unknown, and its subtle psychological insights. His work is frequently analyzed for its use of imagery, its musical qualities, and its ability to evoke a sense of otherworldly beauty and subtle unease.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

De la Mare maintained a lifelong fascination with the supernatural and the mysterious, which fueled many of his stories and poems. His early work in commerce provided a practical contrast to his imaginative literary pursuits. He was known for his quiet demeanor and his dedication to his craft.

Death and memory

Walter de la Mare died in 1956. His poems continue to be read and appreciated for their enduring beauty, craftsmanship, and unique exploration of the imagination and the mysteries of existence.

Poems

24

Silver

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
1,027

Some One

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.
1,068

Napoleon

'WHAT is the world, O soldiers?
.......It is I:
I, this incessant snow,
This northern sky;
Soldiers, this solitude
Through which we go
.......Is I.'
706

Arabia

Far are the shades of Arabia,
Where the Princes ride at noon,
'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,
Under the ghost of the moon;
And so dark is that vaulted purple
Flowers in the forest rise
And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars
Pale in the noonday skies.
Sweet is the music of Arabia
In my heart, when out of dreams
I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn
Descry her gliding streams;
Hear her strange lutes on the green banks
Ring loud with the grief and delight
Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians
In the brooding silence of night.
They haunt me -- her lutes and her forests;
No beauty on earth I see
But shadowed with that dream recalls
Her loveliness to me:
Still eyes look coldly upon me,
Cold voices whisper and say --
'He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,
They have stolen his wits away.'
702

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,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said,
"Poor Nicholas Nye!"
Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,--
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he'd smile:--
Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,--
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.
666

Tartary

If I were Lord of Tartary,
Myself, and me alone,
My bed should be of ivory,
Of beaten gold my throne;
And in my court should peacocks flaunt,
And in my forests tigers haunt,
And in my pools great fishes slant
Their fins athwart the sun.
If I were Lord of Tartary,
Trumpeters every day
To all my meals should summon me,
And in my courtyards bray;
And in the evening lamps should shine,
Yellow as honey, red as wine,
While harp, and flute, and mandoline
Made music sweet and gay.
If I were Lord of Tartary,
I'd wear a robe of beads,
White, and gold, and green they'd be --
And small and thick as seeds;
And ere should wane the morning star,
I'd don my robe and scimitar.
And zebras seven should draw my car
Through Tartary's dark gleades.
Lord of the fruits of Tartary.
Her rivers silver-pale!
Lord of the hills of Tartary.
Glen, thicket, wood, and dale!
Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,
Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,
Her bird-delighting citron-trees,
In every purple vale!
396

Music

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 dreams 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;
And from Time's woods break into distant song
The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
396

The Spirit of Air

Coral and clear emerald,
And amber from the sea,
Lilac-coloured amethyst,
Chalcedony;
The lovely Spirit of Air
Floats on a cloud and doth ride,
Clad in the beauties of earth
Like a bride.
So doth she haunt me; and words
Tell but a tithe of the tale.
Sings all the sweetness of Spring
Even in the nightengale?
Nay, but with echoes she cries
Of the valley of love;
Dews on the thorns of her feet,
And darkness above.
385

Alexander

It was the Great Alexander,
Capped with a golden helm,
Sate in the ages, in his floating ship,
In a dead calm.
Voices of sea-maids singing
Wandered across the deep:
The sailors labouring on their oars
Rowed as in sleep.
All the high pomp of Asia,
Charmed by that siren lay,
Out of their weary and dreaming minds
Faded away.
Like a bold boy sate their Captain,
His glamour withered and gone,
In the souls of his brooding mariners,
While the song pined on.
Time like a falling dew,
Life like the scene of a dream
Laid between slumber and slumber
Only did seem. . . .
O Alexander, then,
In all us mortals too,
Wax not so overbold
On the wave dark-blue!
Come the calm starry night,
Who then will hear
Aught save the singing
Of the sea-maids clear?
376

Winter

Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.
The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.
375

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