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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Winter

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.
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

23

Some One

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.
1,052

Off the Ground

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.'
338

Silver

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.
1,012

Nicholas Nye

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.
659

Music

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.
385

How Sleep the Brave

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.
292

Melmillo

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.
315

Full Moon

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.
336

Bones

Bones
Said Mr. Smith, “I really cannot
Tell you, Dr. Jones—
The most peculiar pain I’m in—
I think it’s in my bones.”
Said Dr. Jones, “Oh, Mr. Smith,
That’s nothing. Without doubt
We have a simple cure for that;
It is to take them out.”
He laid forthwith poor Mr. Smith
Close-clamped upon the table,
And, cold as stone, took out his bones
As fast as he was able.
Smith said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,”
And wished him a good-day;
And with his parcel ‘neath his arm
He slowly moved away.
277

Arabia

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.'
695

Quotes

15

Videos

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