Quote #19
Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse.
More from Walter de la Mare
- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
- Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
- We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
- All but blind In his chambered hole Gropes for worms The four-clawed Mole.
- His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain; His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, 'Rest, rest, and rest agai…
- So, blind to Someone I must be.
- Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
- What lovely things Thy hand hath made.