Solitude - Poem By Walter De La Mare

Solitude

       - By Walter De La Mare

Ghosts there must be with me in this old house,

Deepening its midnight as the clock beats on.

Whence else upwelled - strange, sweet, yet ominous - 

That moment of happiness, and then was gone?

Nimbler than air-borne music, heart may call

A speechless message to the inward ear,

As secret even as that which then befell,

Yet nought that listening could make more clear.

Delicate, subtle senses, instant, fleet! - 

But oh, how near the verge at which they fail!

In vain, self hearkens for the fall of feet

Soft as its own may be, beyond the pale.

Good Bye - Poem By Walter De La Mare

Good Bye

      - By Walter De La Mare

The last of last words spoken is, Good-Bye - 

The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,

The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,

The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.

A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye,

Shines into nothing the watcher's burnt-out candle,

Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense,

Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.

Love of its muted music breathes no sight,

Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning,

Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden,

Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.

Estranged - Poem by Walter De La Mare

Estranged

                     -     By Walter De La Mare

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.

The Moth - Poem By Walter De La Mare

The Moth

     - By Walter De La Mare

Isled in the midnight air,

Musked with the dark's faint bloom,

Out into glooming and secret haunts

The flame cries, 'Come!'

Lovely in dye and fan,

A-tremble in shimmering grace,

A moth from her winter swoon

Uplifts her face;

Stares from her glamorous eyes;

Wafts her on plumes like mist;

In ecstasy swirls and sways

To her strange trysts.