 BEAUTIFUL SUPE by Louis Carroll, for LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. BEAUTIFUL SUPE so rich and green, waiting in a hot terrain. Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful soup. Soup of the evening, beautiful soup. Beautiful soup, beautiful soup. Soup of the evening, beautiful, beautiful soup. Beautiful soup, who cares for fish, game, or any other dish. Who would not give all else for two penny-worth only of beautiful soup? Penny-worth only of beautiful soup. Beautiful soup, beautiful soup. Soup of the evening, beautiful, beautiful soup. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Because your voice was at my side, by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Because your voice was at my side, I gave him pain. Because within my hand I held your hand again. There is no word nor any sign can make amend. He is a stranger to me now, who was my friend. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Break, Break, Break, by Alfred Tennyson. Recorded for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Break, Break, Break, on thy cold gray stones, O.C., and I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play. O well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay, and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill. But O for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still. Break, Break, Break, at the foot of thy crags, O.C., but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dead Men's Love by Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by Corrie Samuel. There was a damned successful poet. There was a woman like the sun. And they were dead. They did not know it. They did not know their time was done. They did not know his hymns were silence, and her limbs that had served love so well, dust, and a filthy smell. And so, one day, as ever of old, hands out they hurried knee to knee, on fire to cling and kiss and hold, and in the other's eyes to see each his own tiny face, and in that long embrace feel lip and breast grow warm, to breast and lip and arm. So knee to knee they sped again, and laugh to laugh they ran, I'm told, across the streets of hell. And then they suddenly felt the wind blow cold, and knew so closely breast, chill air on lip and breast. And, with a sick surprise, the emptiness of eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Death Be Not Proud by John Don. For LibriVox.org. Narrated by Sean McKinley. Death Be Not Proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For those whom thou thinkest, thou dost overthrow, die not for death. Nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow. And soonest are best men with thee, do go. Rest of their bones and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men. And dust with poison, war, and sickness dwell. And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, and better than thy stroke. Why swellt thou then? One short sleep past we wake eternally, and death shall be no more. Death thou shalt die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Handfuls by Carl Sandberg. Read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits. Blossons of babies blinking their stories come soft on the dusk and the babble. Little red gamblers, handfuls that select in the dust. Summers of rain, winters of drift, tell off the years, and they go back who came soft, back to the sod, do silence and dust. Gray gamblers, handfuls again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. Recorded for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Twas Brillig and the slivy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borah-goves and the moam-raths outgrabe. Beware the jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Beware the jub-jub bird and shun, the frumious bander snatch. He took his vorpal sword in hand, long time the mansome foe he sought, so rested he by the tum-tum-tree, and stood a while in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came wiffling through the toll-gee wood, and burbled as it came. One-two, one-two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack, he left it dead and with its head he went glumping back. And hast thou slain the jabberwock, come to my arms, my beamish boy, o'frabjus day, kaloo, kalay, he chortled in his joy. Twas brilig and the slivy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borah-goves and the moam-raths outgrabe. Elizabeth, by Richard Aldington, read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits. Grow weary, if you will, let me be sad. Use no more speech, now. Let the silence spread golden hair above us, fold on delicate fold. Use no more speech. You had the ivory of my life to carve, and Pekus of Mirandola is dead, and all the gods they dreamed unfabled of. Hermes and Thoth and Bailor rotten now, rotten and dank. And through it all I see your pale Greek face. Tenderness makes me eager as a little child to love you. You morsel left half-cold on Caesar's plate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lobster Quadril, by Lewis Carroll, read for LibriVox.org by Squid Vashlakova, found at Frisco-squid.blogspot.com. The Lobster Quadril. Will you walk a little faster? said a whiting to a snail. There's a pauper's close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the totals all advance. They are waiting on the shingle. Will you come and join the dance? Will you won't you? Will you won't you? Will you join the dance? Will you won't you? Will you won't you? Won't you join the dance? You can really have no notion how delightful it will be when they take us up and throw us with the lobsters out to sea. But the snail replied, too far, too far, and gave a look of scance. Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. What matters it how far we go? his scaly friend replied. There is another shore you know upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France. Then turn out pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you won't you? Will you won't you? Will you join the dance? Will you won't you? Will you won't you? Won't you join the dance? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lost by Carl Sandberg. Read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits. Desolate and alone, all night long on the lake, where fog trails and mist creeps, the whistle of boat calls and cries unendingly, like some lost child in tears and trouble, hunting the harbour's breast and the harbour's eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh Cool is the Valley Now by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Oh Cool is the Valley Now and their love will we go, for many a choir is singing now, where love did some time go. And hear you not the thrush's calling, calling us away. Oh Cool and pleasant is the Valley and their love will we stay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh Sweetheart Hear You by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Oh Sweetheart Hear You, your lover's tale. A man shall have sorrow when friends him fail. For he shall know then friends be untrue and a little ashes their words come to. But one unto him will softly move and softly woo him in ways of love. His hand is under her smooth round breast, so he who has sorrow shall have rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sea Slumber Song by Rodin Berkley Reathley-Noelle Recorded for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Sea birds are asleep, the world forgets to weep. Sea murmurs her soft slumber song on the shadowy sand of this elfin land. I, the mother mild, hush thee, oh my child, the voice is wild. Isles in elfin light dream the rocks and caves lulled by whispering waves. Fail their marbles bright, foam glimmers faintly white upon the shelly sand of this elfin land. Sea sound like violins to slumber woos and winds. I murmur my soft slumber song. Leave woes and wails and sins. Ocean shadowy night breathes good night. Good night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Solitude by Ella Wheeler-Willcox Read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Willits Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own. Sing and the hills will answer, sigh it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, but shrink from voicing care. Rejoice and men will seek you, grieve and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, but they do not need your woe. Be glad and your friends are many, be sad and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, but alone you must drink life's call. Feast and your holes are crowded. Fast and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, but no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure for a long and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of pain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And the fleas that tease in the high Pyrenees and the wine that tasted of tar, and the cheers and the cheers of the young militears under the vine of the dark veranda. Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn? And the cheers and the cheers of the young militears who hadn't got up any, and who weren't paying any, and the hammer at the doors and the din, and the hip-hop-hop of the clap, of the girls to the swirl in the twirl, of the girl gone chancing, glancing, dancing, backing and advancing, snapping of the clapper to the spin, out and in, and the ting-tongue-tang of the guitar. Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn? Nevermore, Miranda, nevermore, only the high peaks whore and Aragon a torrent at the door, no sound, in the walls of the halls where falls the tread of the feet of the dead to the ground, no sound, but the boom of the far waterfall-like doom. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers the way I shall not pass along. I care not if you bridge the seas, or ride secure the cruel sky, or build consummate palaces of metal, or of masonry. But have you wine and music still, and statues, and a bright-eyed love, and foolish thoughts of good and ill, and prayers to them who sit above? How shall we conquer? Like a wind that falls at eve, our fancies blow, and old moanities the blind said it three thousand years ago. Oh, friend unseen, unborn, unknown, student of our sweet English tongue. Read out my words at night, alone. I was a poet. I was young. Since I can never see your face, and never shake you by the hand, I send my soul through time and space to greet you. You will understand. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day are mingled, the voice of the night rose cold and calm, it called through the shadow-swept air. Through all the valleys and lone hillsides it pierced, it thrilled, it tingled, it summoned me forth to the wild sea shore, to meet with its mystery there. Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating, of gleam and glitter and opaline glow that broke in ripples of light, in burning glory it came and went, I heard I saw it beating, pulse by pulse from star to star, the passionate heart of the night. Out of the thud of the rustling sea, the panting, yearning, throbbing, waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray, the wail of the night came fitful faint, I heard her stifled sobbing. The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray. There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great tides roared assembling, murmuring hidden things that are past and secret things that shall be, there at the limits of life we met and touched with a rapturous trembling, one with each other, I in the night and the skies and the stars and the sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When I Read the Book by Walt Whitman Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake When I read the book, the biography famous, and is this then, said I, what the author calls a man's life? And so will someone when I am dead and gone write my life? As if any man really knew ought of my life. Why, even I myself, I often think, know little or nothing of my real life. Only a few hints. A few diffused faint clues and indirections I seek for my own use to trace out here. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Widow's Lament in Springtime by William Carlos Williams Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake Sorrow is my own yard, where the new grass flames as it had flamed often before, but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirty-five years I lived with my husband. The plum tree is white today with masses of flowers. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches, and color some bushes yellow and some red. But the grief in my heart is stronger than they, for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turn away, forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there, and fall into those flowers, and sink into the marsh near them. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Young Housewife by William Carlos Williams Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake At ten a.m. the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband's house. I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb to call the iceman, fishman, and stands shy, uncorseted, tucking in stray ends of hair, and I compare her to a fallen leaf. The noiseless wheels of my car rush with a crackling sound over dried leaves, as I bow, and pass smiling.