 THE WELL WAS DRIVE BESIDE THE DOOR, AND SO WE WENT WITH PALE AND CAN ACROSS THE FIELDS, BEHIND THE HOUSE, TO SEEK THE BROOK, IF STILL IT RAN. NOT LOTHED TO HAVE EXCUSE TO GO, BECAUSE THE AUTOM EVE WAS FAIR, THOUGH CHILL, BECAUSE THE FIELDS WERE OURS, AND BY THE BROOK OUR WOODS WERE THERE. WE RAN AS IF TO MEET THE MOON THAT SLOWLY DAWNED BEHIND THE TREES, THE BARON BOWS WITHOUT THE LEAVES, WITHOUT THE BIRDS, WITHOUT THE BREEZE. BUT ONCE, WITHIN THE WOOD, WE PAWSED LIKE GNOMES THAT HIT US FROM THE MOON, READY TO RUN TO HIDING, NEW WITH LAUGHTER, WHEN SHE FOUND US SOON. EACH LAYED ON ANOTHER, A STAYING HAND, TO LISTEN, AIR WE DARE TO LOOK, AND IN THE HUSH WE JOINED TO MAKE, WE HEARD, WE KNEW WE HEARD THE BROOK. A NOTE, AS FROM A SINGLE PLACE, A SLENDER TINKLING FALL, THAT MADE NOW DROPS THAT FLOTED ON THE POOL, LIKE PURLS, AND NOW A SILVER BLADE. END OF POEM, THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. THE HAIR AND THE TORTUS, BY MARMA DOOK PARK, RED FOR LIBERVOX.ORG, BY CAROLIN FRANCIS. SET A HAIR TO A TORTUS, GOOD SIR, WHAT A WHILE YOU HAVE BEEN ONLY CROSSING THE WAY. WHY, I REALLY BELIEVE, THAT TO GO HALF A MILE, YOU MUST TRAVEL TWO NIGHTS IN A DAY. I am very contented, the creature replied, though I walk but a tortoise pace, but if you think proper the point to decide, we will run half a mile in a race. Very good, said the hare, said the tortoise, proceed, and the fox shall decide who has won. Then the hare started off with incredible speed, but the tortoise walked leisurely on. Come tortoise, friend tortoise, walk on, said the hare. Well, I shall stay here for my dinner. Why to take you a month at that rate to get there? Then how can you hope to be winner? But the tortoise could hear not a word that she said, for he was far distant behind. So the hare felt secure while at leisure she fed, and took a sound nap when she dined. So at last the slow walker came up with the hare, and there fast asleep did he spy her, and he cunningly crept with such caution and care that she woke not although he passed by her. Well, now, thought the hare when she opened her eyes, for the race, and I soon shall have done it. But who can describe her chagrin and surprise when she found that the tortoise had won it? Moral. Thus plain-plotting people we often shall find will leave hasty confident people behind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I am he that aches with love by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. I am he that aches with amorous love. Does the earth gravitate? Does not all matter aching attract all matter? So the body of me to all I meet or know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Listeners by Walter De La Mar. Read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. Is anybody there? said the traveller knocking on the moonlit door, and his horse in the silence chomped the grasses of the forest's ferny floor, and a bird flew up out of the turret above the traveller's head, and he smote upon the door a second time. Is there anybody there? he said. But no one descended to the traveller. No head from the leaf-fringe sill leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners that dwelt in the lone house then stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight to that voice from the world of men. It thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair that goes down to the empty hall, harkening in an air stirred and shaken by the lonely traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, their stillness answering his cry, while his horse moved cropping the dark turf, near the starred and leafy sky, for he suddenly smote the door even louder and lifted his head. While them I came and no one answered that I kept my word, he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, though every word he spake felt echoing through the shadowiness of the still house from the one man left awake. I, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, and the sound of iron on stone, and how the silence surged softly backward when the plunging hoofs were gone. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Many roses in the wind are tapping at the window-sash, a hawk is in the sky, his wings slowly begin to plash. The roses, with the west wind wrapping, are torn away, and a splash of red goes down the billowing air. The bill hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving past him, only a wing beat proving the will that holds him there. The daisies in the grass are bending, the hawk has dropped, the wind is spending all the roses, and an ending rustle of leaves washes out the rending cry of a bird. A red rose goes on the wind, ascending, the hawk, his wind swept away, is wending easily down the sky. The daisies sending strange white signals seem intending to show the place once the scream was heard. But, oh my heart, what birds are piping! A silver wind is hastily wiping the face of the youngest rose. And oh my heart, cease apprehending! The hawk is gone, a rose is tapping the window-sash as the west wind blows. The hawk-knock-t is no more than a red rose wrapping, and fear is a plash of wings. What then, if a scarlet rose goes flapping down the bright grey ruin of things? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lucifer in Starlight by George Meredith Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake On a starred night, Prince Lucifer up rose. Tired of his dark dominion, swung the fiend above the rolling ball in cloud-part screened, where sinners hugged their specter of repose. Poor prey of his hot fit of pride were those. And now, upon his western wing he leaned. And now his huge bulk over Africa's sands careened. Now the black planet shadowed arctic snows, soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars with memory of the old revolt from awe. He reached a middle height, and at the stars, which are the brain of heaven, he looked and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, the army of unalterable law. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Old Meg She Was Egyptian by John Keats Red for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli in Rome, November 2007 Old Meg She Was Egyptian and lived upon the moors. Her bed it was the brown heath turf, and her house was out of doors. Her apples were swore to blackberries. Her current spores a broom. Her wine was due of the wild white rose. Her book churchy on the tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, her sisters large and trees. Alone with her great family, she lived as a she did please. No breakfast had she many morn, no dinner many noon. Instead of a supper she would stare full hard against the moon. At every morn, over wood-bine-fresh, she made her gullonding, and every night, the darker glen you she wove and as she would sing. And with her fingers old and brown, she plaited mezzo-rushes, and gave them to the cottagers as she met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, and tall as Amazon, and no dread blanket cloak she wore. A cheap hat had a sheon, God rest her aged bones somewhere, she died full-along gone. End of a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Milkmaid by Marmaduke Park, read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. A milkmaid who poised a full pail on her head, thus mused on her prospects in life it is said, Let's see. I should think that this milk will procure one hundred good eggs or four score, to be sure. Well then, stop a bit. It must not be forgotten. Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten. But if twenty-four accidents should be detached, it will leave me just sixty sound eggs to hatched. Well, sixty sound eggs? No, sound chickens, I mean. Of these some may die. Well, suppose seventeen, seventeen, not so many, say ten at the most, which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast. But then there's their barley, how much will they need? Why they take but one grain at a time when they feed, so there's a mere trifle. Now then, let us see, at a fair market price, how much money there'll be. Just chilling a pair, five, four, three, and six, to prevent all mistakes that low price I will fix. Now what will that make, fifty chickens, I said, fifty times three and six pence? I'll ask Brother Ned. Oh, but stop! Three and six pence a pair I must sell them. Well a pair is a couple. Now then, let us tell them. A couple and fifty will go, my poor brain, why just a score times and five pair will remain. Twenty-five pair of fowls, now how shameful it is, that I can't reckon up as much money as this. Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess. I will say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. Twenty pounds I am certain will buy me a cow, thirty geese, and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow. Now if these turn out well at the end of the year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, tis clear. Then I'll bid that old tumble-down hovel good-bye, my mother shall scold, and my sisters they'll cry. But I won't care a crow's egg for all they can say, I shan't go to stop with such beggars as they. But forgetting her burden, when this she had said, the maids superciliously tossed up her head, when alas, for her prospects, the milk-pale descended, and so all her schemes for the future were ended. Moral. This moral, I think, may be safely attached. Reckon not your chickens before they are hatched. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Native Moments. By Walt Whitman. Give me now, libidinous joys only. Give me the drench of my passions. Give me life course and rank. Today I go consort with nature's darlings, to-night too. I am for those who believe in loose delights. I share the midnight orgies of young men. I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers. The echoes ring with our indecent calls. I pick out some low person for my dearest friend. He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate. He shall be one condemned by others for deeds done. I will play a part no longer. Why should I exile myself from my companions? O you shunned persons, I at least do not shun you. I come forthwith in your midst. I will be your poet. I will be more to you than to any of the rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On a favorite cat, drowned in a tub of goldfishes. By Thomas Gray. Read for lipervox.org by Jake Baker, October 2007. Twas on a lofty vase's side, where China's gazed art had died, the azure flowers that blow. Demirused of the tabby kind, the pensive salima reclined. Gazed on the lake below, her conscious tale, her joy declared. The fair round face, the snowy beard, the velvet of her paws. Her coat, that with the tortoise-vies, her ears of jet and emerald eyes, she saw and purred applause. All had she gazed, but missed the tide, two angel forms were seen to glide, the genie of the stream. Their scaly armors, Tyrion Hugh, through richest purple to the view, betrayed a golden gleam. The hapless nymph with wonder saw, a whisker first, and then claw, with many an ardent wish. She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous maid with looks intent, again she stretched, again she bent, nor knew the gulf between. Malignant fate sat by and smiled. The slippery verge her feet beguiled, she tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood, she mewed to every watery god, some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no nirid stirred, nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A favorite has not friend. From hence ye beauties undeceived. No one false step is nere retrieved, and be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes and heedless hearts is lawful prize, nor all that glisters gold. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A WHITE WIND NUMMING THE WORLD by Christopher J. Brennan A WHITE WIND NUMMING THE WORLD to a mask of suffering hate, and thy goblin pipes have scurled all night at my broken gate. O heart, be hidden and kept in a half-light, colored and warm, and call on thy dreams that have slept to charm thee from hate and harm. They are gone, for I might not keep my senses beaten and dined. There is no peace but a grey sleep in the paws of the wind. SLEEPLESS I LISTEN TO THE SURGE AND DRONE AND DRIFTING ROAR OF THE TOWN'S UNDERTONE, till, through quiet falling rain, I hear the bells tolling and chiming their brief tune that tells day's midnight end. And from the day that's over no flashes of delight I can recover, but only dreary winter streets and faces of people moving in loud, clanging places, and I in my loneliness longing for you. For all I did to-day, and all I'll do to-morrow, in this city of intense, arteryed activities that throb and strive, is but a beating down of that suspense which holds me from your arms. I am alive, only that I may find you at the end of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend, putting each one behind me, knowing but this, that all my days are turning toward your kiss, that all expectancy awaits the deep, consoling passion of your eyes that keep their radiance for my coming, and their peace for when I find in you my love's release. A Reasonable Affliction by Matthew Pryor, read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. She hears the storm by Thomas Hardy. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. There was a time in former years, while my roof-tree was his, when I should have been distressed by fears at such a night as this. I should have murmured anxiously, the prickling rain strikes cold, his road is bare of hedge or tree, and he is getting old. But now the fitful chimney roar, the drone of thorn-combe trees, the frume in flood upon the moor, the mud of mel-stock lees, the cantile slanting sooty wicked, the thuds upon the thatch, the eaves drops on the window-flicked, the clacking garden-hatch, and what they mean to wayfarers I scarcely heed or mind, he has won that storm-tight roof of hers which earth grants all her kind. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. I, being born a woman and distressed by all the needs and notions of my kind, am urged by your propinquity to find your person fair, and feel a certain zest to bear your body's weight upon my breast, so subtly as the fume of life designed, to clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, and leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season my scorn with pity. Let me make it plain. I find this frenzy insufficient reason for conversation when we meet again. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Sound of Trees by Robert Frost I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear forever the noise of these, more than another noise, so close to our dwelling-place? We suffer them by the day, till we lose all measure of pace and fixity in our joys, and acquire a listening-air. They are that that talks of going, but never gets away. And that talks no less for knowing, as it grows wiser and older, that now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor, and my head sways to my shoulder sometimes, when I watch trees sway, from the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere. I shall make the reckless choice some day, when they are in voice and tossing, so as to scare the white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, but I shall be gone. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. So we'll go no more aroving. By Lord George Gordon Byron Red for LibriVox.org by David Butler So we'll go no more aroving so late into the night, though the heart still be as loving, and the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul outwears the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more aroving by the light of the moon. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer by Amy Lowell Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake Some men there are who find in nature all their inspiration, hers the sympathy which spurs them on to any great endeavor. To them the fields and woods are closest friends, and they hold dear communion with the hills. The voice of waters sooth them with its fall, and the great winds bring healing in their sound. To them a city is a prison house, where pent up human forces labor and strive, where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man, but where in winter they must live until summer gives back the spaces of the hills. To me it is not so. I love the earth and all the gifts of her so lavish hand. Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, thick branches swaying in a winter storm, and moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake. But more than these, and much, ah, how much more. I love the very human heart of man. Love me spreads the hot, blue midday sky. Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake, lazily reflecting back the sun, and scarcely ruffled by the little breeze which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. The blue crest of a distant mountain tops the green crest of the hill on which I sit. And it is summer, glorious deep-toned summer, the very crown of nature's changing year, when all her surging life is at its full. To me alone it is a time of pause, a void and silent space between two worlds, when inspiration lags and feeling sleeps, gathering strength for efforts yet to come. For life alone is creator of life, and closest contact with the human world is like a lantern shining in the night to light me to a knowledge of myself. I love the vivid life of winter months in constant intercourse with human minds, when every new experience is gain, and on all sides we feel the great world's heart, the pulse and throb of life which makes us men. And a poem this recording is in the public domain. To the Virgins to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick Read for LibriVox.org by David Butler Gather ye rose-butts while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he is a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he is to setting. That age is best which is the first when youth and blood are warmer, but being spent the worse and worst times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, and while ye may, go marry. For having lost but once your prime ye may forever tarry. The Wetted Lover by Christopher Morley Read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis I read in our old journals of the days when our first love was April-sweet and new, how fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew despite the adverse time, and our amaze at moon and stars and beauty beyond praise, that burgeoned all about us, gold and blue the heaven arched us in, and all we knew was gentleness. We walked on happy ways. They said by now the path would be more steep, the sun sets paler and less mild the air. Riotly we heeded not. It was not true. We will not tell the secret. Let it keep. I know not how I thought those days so fair, these being so m-