Have you ever been in art museum and been told by the "guide" that some tiny painting, hanging over in a corner by itself, of a cart and horse and haystack with green grass and a blue sky and white clouds is a masterpiece, and you didn't get it at first because there were these massive, well-known masterpieces all over the place, but then you looked at the little painting for a while and finally figured out why the nice lady had called it a masterpiece?

Well, in my humble opinion, this little poem is a masterpiece. There are many bigger, gaudier, better known, and more widely recognized masterpieces in the poetic genre. But I have always thought that this perfect little verse deserves a corner of its own among the Eliots, Audens, Tennysons and Shelleys.

This belief of mine is, of course, not widely shared. De la Mare is respected, but not considered to be one of the greats. But I love this particular poem, and I have always liked his remarkable ability to paint vivid pictures with just a few words, and the ever present touches of mystery and melancholy. Vita Sackville-West, whose work was featured in these pages two weeks ago, described de la Mare a "poet of dusk." And how can you not love a guy who wrote scores of wonderful poems for children, a gift from God if there ever was one.

I know very little about de la Mare's life. But I like the fact that he seemed to have been an ordinary guy, free from the tempestuous fears, doubts and psychoses that have marked the lives of so many poets; a man who lived a long, happy, highly productive life, a good husband who raised good kids, one of whom grew up to be chairman of the publishing house Faber & Faber, to whom we are indebted for hundreds of wonderful books over the years, including some marvelous poetry.

Please enjoy Walter de la Mare. We will return to his work again sometime, for there is much more to enjoy.