Do you remember, my dear, Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight, Looking over to Flatholme We sat ... Long ago!... And the things that you told me ... Little things in the clear of the moon, The little, sad things of a life.... We shall do it again Full surely, Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme. Then, far away to the right Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble _Wukka-wukka!_ And, far away to the left, under Flatholme, _Wukka-wuk!..._ I wonder, my dear, can you stick it? As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!" In the dark of the moon, Going over.... "THERE SHALL BE MORE JOY ..." The little angels of Heaven Each wear a long white dress, And in the tall arcadings Play ball and play at chess; With never a soil on their garments, Not a sigh the whole day long, Not a bitter note in their pleasure, Not a bitter note in their song. But they shall know keener pleasure, And they shall know joy more rare-- Keener, keener pleasure When you, my dear, come there. * * * * * The little angels of Heaven Each wear a long white gown, And they lean over the ramparts Waiting and looking down. _Walter De la Mare_ The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary poetry, Walter De la Mare, was born in 1873. Although he did not begin to bring out his work in book form until he was over 30, he is, as Harold Williams has written, "the singer of a young and romantic world, a singer even for children, understanding and perceiving as a child." De la Mare paints simple scenes of miniature loveliness; he uses thin-spun fragments of fairy-like delicacy and achieves a grace that is remarkable in its universality. "In a few words, seemingly artless and unsought" (to quote Williams again), "he can express a pathos or a hope as wide as man's life." De la Mare is an astonishing joiner of words; in _Peacock Pie_ (1913) he surprises us again and again by transforming what began as a child's nonsense-rhyme into a suddenly thrilling snatch of music. A score of times he takes things as casual as the feeding of chickens or the swallowing of physic, berry-picking, eating, hair-cutting--and turns them into magic. These poems read like lyrics of William Shakespeare rendered by Mother Goose. The trick of revealing the ordinary in whimsical colors, of catching the commonplace off its guard, is the first of De la Mare's two magics.