Skip to main content

Walter de la Mare


In the Garden

A mild parochial talk was ours; The air of the afternoon was sweet With burthen of the sun-parched flowers; His fiery beams in fury beat From out the O of space, and made, Wherever leaves his glare let through, Circlets of brilliance in the sha [...]


1 "Oh! Raining! Look!" she whispered, Gazing out On wheat fields parched with drought, And trees that even in prime Of bounteous summertime Showed yellow in their green; But now, as in delight, Showered down these withered leaves A [...]