A little while ago, I mentioned how poems learned in earliest childhood remain imprinted in your mind… every time there is bright moonlight, casting that particular sort of glow across sleeping countryside, Walter de la Mare’s poem is there… I’ve written about it before, but am pleased to repeat!

De la Mare was born in 1873, in what was then  Kent but is now in Greenwhich, and was always known as Jack by his family. His name is of French Huguenot origin, and his father had an important position in the Bank of England. I don’t know if de lla mare still features in school anthologies, he’s probably been replaced by something ‘relevant’ and ‘accessible’…

Her is his evocative little poem:

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.

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