'Like a language we once knew...'

 Late in the day – too late to write much – I learn that it is the 150th anniversary, a big one, of the birth of the underrated (but often, undeniably, verbose) Walter de la Mare. 
Penelope Fitzgerald wrote that De la Mare 'had a more exact ear than perhaps any other English poet. In his verse every pause, as well as every stress, falls into place like a language we once knew, but have to be reminded of' – and this is true of his verse at its best, which often means its shortest. Two very short poems of his that I particularly cherish are these: 

 Napoleon

'What is the world, O soldiers?
       It is I:
I, this incessant snow,
   This northern sky;
Soldiers, this solitude
   Through which we go
       Is I.'

(a perfect evocation of grandiose paranoia), and this chilling little number:

'Ann, Ann!
        Come! Quick as you can!
    There's a fish that talks
        In the frying-pan.
    Out of the fat,
        As clear as glass,
    He put up his mouth
        And moaned 'Alas!'
    Oh, most mournful,
        'Alas, alack!'
    Then turned to his sizzling,
        And sank him back.'