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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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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.
Read full poem
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

The Song of Finis

At the edge of All the Ages
A Knight sate on his steed,
His armor red and thin with rust
His soul from sorrow freed;
And he lifted up his visor
From a face of skin and bone,
And his horse turned head and whinnied
As the twain stood there alone.
No bird above that steep of time
Sang of a livelong quest;
No wind breathed,
Rest:
"Lone for an end!" cried Knight to steed,
Loosed an eager rein--
Charged with his challenge into space:
And quiet did quiet remain.
357

Off the Ground

Three jolly Farmers
Once bet a pound
Each dance the others would
Off the ground.
Out of their coats
They slipped right soon,
And neat and nicesome
Put each his shoon.
One--Two--Three!
And away they go,
Not too fast,
And not too slow;
Out from the elm-tree's
Noonday shadow,
Into the sun
And across the meadow.
Past the schoolroom,
With knees well bent,
Fingers a flicking,
They dancing went.
Up sides and over,
And round and round,
They crossed click-clacking
The Parish bound;
By Tupman's meadow
They did their mile,
Tee-to-tum
On a three-barred stile.
Then straight through Whipham,
Downhill to Week,
Footing it lightsome,
But not too quick,
Up fields to Watchet
And on through Wye,
Till seven fine churches
They'd seen slip by --
Seven fine churches,
And five old mills,
Farms in the valley,
And sheep on the hills;
Old Man's Acre
And Dead Man's Pool
All left behind,
As they danced through Wool.
And Wool gone by,
Like tops that seem
To spin in sleep
They danced in dream:
Withy -- Wellover --
Wassop -- Wo --
Like an old clock
Their heels did go.


A league and a league
And a league they went,
And not one weary,
And not one spent.
And log, and behold!
Past Willow-cum-Leigh
Stretched with its waters
The great green sea.
Says Farmer Bates,
'I puffs and I blows,
What's under the water,
Why, no man knows !'
Says Farmer Giles,
'My mind comes weak,
And a good man drownded
Is far to seek. '
But Farmer Turvey,
On twirling toes,
Up's with his gaiters,
And in he goes:
Down where the mermaids
Pluck and play
On their twangling harps
In a sea-green day;
Down where the mermaids
Finned and fair,
Sleek with their combs
Their yellow hair. . . .
Bates and Giles --
On the shingle sat,
Gazing at Turvey's
Floating hat.
But never a ripple
Nor bubble told
Where he was supping
Off plates of gold.
Never an echo
Rilled through the sea
Of the feasting and dancing
And minstrelsy.
They called -- called -- called;
Came no reply:
Nought but the ripples'
Sandy sigh.
Then glum and silent
They sat instead,
Vacantly brooding
On home and bed,
Till both together
Stood up and said: --
'Us knows not, dreams not,
Where you be,


Turvey, unless
In the deep blue sea;
But axcusing silver --
And it comes most willing --
Here's us two paying our forty shilling;
For it's sartin sure, Turvey,
Safe and sound,
You danced us a square, Turvey,
Off the ground.'
350

Full Moon

One night as Dick lay half asleep,
Into his drowsy eyes
A great still light began to creep
From out the silent skies.
It was the lovely moon's, for when
He raised his dreamy head,
Her surge of silver filled the pane
And streamed across his bed.
So, for a while, each gazed at each --
Dick and the solemn moon --
Till, climbing slowly on her way,
She vanished, and was gone.
349

The Scribe

What lovely things
Thy hand hath made:
The smooth-plumed bird
In its emerald shade,
The seed of the grass,
The speck of the stone
Which the wayfaring ant
Stirs -- and hastes on!
Though I should sit
By some tarn in thy hills,
Using its ink
As the spirit wills
To write of Earth's wonders,
Its live, willed things,
Flit would the ages
On soundless wings
Ere unto Z
My pen drew nigh
Leviathan told,
And the honey-fly:
And still would remain
My wit to try --
My worn reeds broken,
The dark tarn dry,
All words forgotten --
Thou, Lord, and I.
339

The Keys of Morning

While at her bedroom window once,
Learning her task for school,
Little Louisa lonely sat
In the morning clear and cool,
She slanted her small bead-brown eyes
Across the empty street,
And saw Death softly watching her
In the sunshine pale and sweet.
His was a long lean sallow face;
He sat with half-shut eyes,
Like a old sailor in a ship
Becalmed 'neath tropic skies.
Beside him in the dust he had set
His staff and shady hat;
These, peeping small, Louisa saw
Quite clearly where she sat -
The thinness of his coal-black locks,
His hands so long and lean
They scarcely seemed to grasp at all
The keys that hung between:
Both were of gold, but one was small,
And with this last did he
Wag in the air, as if to say,
"Come hither, child, to me!"
Louisa laid her lesson book
On the cold window-sill;
And in the sleepy sunshine house
Went softly down, until
She stood in the half-opened door,
And peeped. But strange to say
Where Death just now had sunning sat
Only a shadow lay:
Just the tall chimney's round-topped cowl,
And the small sun behind,
Had with its shadow in the dust
Called sleepy Death to mind.
But most she thought how strange it was
Two keys that he should bear,
And that, when beckoning, he should wag
The littlest in the air.
331

Melmillo

Three and thirty birds there stood
In an elder in a wood;
Called Melmillo -- flew off three,
Leaving thirty in the tree;
Called Melmillo -- nine now gone,
And the boughs held twenty-one;
Called Melmillo -- and eighteen
Left but three to nod and preen;
Called Melmillo -- three--two--one--
Now of birds were feathers none.
Then stole slim Me.millo in
To that wood all dusk and green,
And with lean long palms outspread
Softly a strange dance did tread;
Not a note of music she
Had for echoing company;
All the birds were flown to rest
In the hollow of her breast;
In the wood -- thorn, elder willow --
Danced alone -- lone danced Melmillo.
323

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.
317

The Ghost

Peace in thy hands,
Peace in thine eyes,
Peace on thy brow;
Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
Peace with me now.
Not a wave breaks,
Not a bird calls,
My heart, like a sea,
Silent after a storm that hath died,
Sleeps within me.
All the night's dews,
All the world's leaves,
All winter's snow
Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream
All sorrowing now.
311

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.
302

The Mocking Fairy

'Won't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?'
Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;
'Can't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?'
Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;
But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,
And the ivy-tod neath the empty sill,
And never from her window looked out Mrs. Gill
On the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden.
'What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?'
Quoth the Fairy brightly glancing in the garden;
'Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?'
Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;
But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,
Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,
And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. Gill
The Fairy mimbling, mambling in the garden.
301

Quotes

14

Videos

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