 Annabelle Lee by Ed Grailampot, read for LibraVox.org by Christine Wales. It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabelle Lee, and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with the love that was more than love, I and my Annabelle Lee, with the love that the winged serifs of heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabelle Lee, so that her Highborn Kingsman came and bore her away from me, to shut her up in his cell-pature in this kingdom by the sea. The angels not half so happy in heaven when envying her and me, yes, that was the reason, as all men know in this kingdom by the sea, that the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabelle Lee. But our love that was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we, and either the angels in heaven above, or the demons down under the sea, can ever deceiver my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of my beautiful Annabelle Lee. And so, all the night tide, I lay down by the side of my darling, my darling, my life in my bride, in her cell-pature, there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea. End of Annabelle Lee, this recording is in the public domain. Thus do ye answer. We declare God's glory, and to you it is given, to cast on him your every care. For he hath wound the clock of heaven. Ye hoary hills which have looked down on all the centuries of time have felt their touch without a frown, and with indifference sublime. What would ye speak if understood of life with all its woes and hills? Tis this, to all they work for good, who love the maker of the hills. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bohodino by Lewis Way Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya Bohodino to his Imperial Majesty Alexander, Emperor of all the Russias. Les Russes ont mis le feu à Moscou pour que le martyre d'une ville sainte sauva le monde de chrétien. Madame de Stal, Vol. 1, p. 406 Horus, Lib. 1, Ode 2. Enough of storm and dwindly blast, for lo, the tyranny is past, Napoleon meets his doom, witness ye piles of frozen slain that burn on Bohodino's plain, infatuate Gallia's tomb. Provoked by her infuriate pride the Russian turns the battles tide, as often days of old, no more to foreign phobia paid the tribute once by Tartar late, for safety bought with gold. Let Krasnoi say, Kalu Gatel, how many thousands fought and fell beneath the cannon's roar. The forest and the flood declare the prey of famine and despair, how many thousands more. Even nature turns against the man who dares denounce her ordered plan with murderous intent. Commissioned by the angry North, the snow-gird whirlwind rushes forth on summery vengeance sent. In vain the timely warning came of foul defeat and future shame that lurked unseen behind. Ambition has no eye nor ear till swift reverse awakened fear her votary is blind. While first invoking nature's guard, whose mercy swayed the chastening rod, ere yet the conflict sees, the monarch of the frigid zone, upholding his imperial throne, anticipated peace. What if the venerable wall of Kremlin's crested turret fall in one ill-fated hour, no sudden unpropitious blaze the consecrated wall shall raise of Ivan's skilled tower. No flame shall touch Calita's shrine with sars and patriarchs recline, each in his marble bed enchanted off the solemn rite with silver lamp and taper light, the living and the dead. The cross, the glittering balfrey bore, the sacrilegious victor-tore, and grasped an empty fame, nor sooner won the golden toy than Moscow mocked his frantic joy in martyrdom and flame. He had yet to learn how domes and palaces could burn, invaded by a gall. How soon in fortune's fickle hour a tyrant's maddening, giddy power accelerates his fall. Mantled in clouds of driven snow, see the reluctant recreation go, a wretched life to save. The few that cover his retreat fall intercepted at his feet in Berezina's wave. For scarcely crossed the fatal flood, then reckless of his comrade's blood, he blew the bridge in air, o' what a look he cast behind, could horror fill up such a mind its plenitude was there. The wreck of the deserted crew, with torbid limbs and livid ewe, proclaim from whence they come, or bound in icy chains they lie, or driven by the whirlwind fly, to reach their native home. Then follows close behind, and fever burns in every wind, the mark of wrath divine. The step of death's impetuous stance recoils upon imperial friends, and desolates the Rhine. But not the Amatian's wanted name, nor Washington thy well-earned fame with brighter lust than his, who in disastrous hour, placed not his trust in human power, but providence divine. Born of Romanov's sainted race, imperial Tsar, in thine we trace an origin above, born of the spirit and the word, truth shall thy Christian deeds record, as works of faith and love. O, may thy gracious soul receive, the tribute rescued nations give, may no discord and strife, nor civil or domestic broil, defeat thy patriotic toil, or seek thy sacred life. Patriarch Prince, thy lengthened days, may triumph and and endless praise, and may the impious call, as oft as he shall dare invade, in warfare's storm or treason's shade, as often prostrate fall. Can Elba chain the restless mind, that lords in thought over all mankind, and scorns a pygmy rain? What means shall thwart the mighty plan? O Wellington, be thou the man, and waterlew the plain? Thou seagirt-rock volcanic womb, be thou deposed Napoleon's tomb, from Gallia's footstool hurled. Be Alexander's blessed fate, in holy league confederate, to pacify the world. LW. Composed on the Plains of Borodino, 18th of March, 1818. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Castaway Care, by Thomas Decker, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shemf. Castaway Care, he that loves sorrow lengthens not a day, nor can buy tomorrow. Money is trash, and he that will spend it, let him drink merrily, fortune will send it. Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh-ho, play it off stiffly, we may not part so. Pots fly about, give us more liquor, brothers of a route, our brains will flow quicker. Empty the cask, score up we will be. constable. Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh-ho, play it off stiffly, we may not part so. Pots fly about, give us more liquor. Brothers of a route, our brains will flow quicker. Empty the cask, score up, we care not. Fill all the pots again, drink on, and spare not. Merrily, merrily, oh-ho, play it off stiffly, we may not part so. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org by Christine Wales. Half a leak, half a leak, half a leak onward. All in the Valley of Death rode the 600. Forward the Light Brigade, charge for the guns, he said. Into the Valley of Death rode the 600. Forward the Light Brigade, was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldiers knew, someone had blundered. There's not to make reply, there's not to reason why, there's what to do and die. Into the Valley of Death rode the 600. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them, valied and thundered. Thundered at with shot and shell, boldly they rode unwell. Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, rode the 600. Flashed all their sabers bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabering the gunners there. Charging an army, while all the world wandered, plunged into the battery smoke, right through the line they broke, Cossack in Russian, reeled from saber stroke, shattered and thundered, then rode back, but not, not the 600. Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon behind them, valied and thundered. Stormed out with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they that fought so well, came through the jaws of death, back from the mouths of hell, all that was left of them, left of 600. One can their glory fade, oh the wild charge they made, all the world wandered, honor the charge they made, honor the Light Brigade, the noble 600. End of Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lortennison. This recording is in the public domain. The lupin blooms among the tomb. The quail recalls her brute. Ah, good it is to sit and trace, the shadow of the cross. It moves so still from place to place, or marble, bronze, and moss. With graves to mark upon its arc, our time's eternal loss. And sweet it is to watch the bee that revs in the rose, and sense the fragrance floating free on every breeze that blows. Or many a mound where, safe and sound, my enemies repose. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Cup by Narendra Natt Dutta. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. This is your cup. The cup assigned to you from the beginning. Nay, my child, I know how much of that dark drink is your own brew of fault and passion. Ages long ago, in the deep years of yesterday. I knew this is your road, a painful road and drear. I made the stones that never give you rest. I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear, and he shall come, like you, unto my breast. But you, my child, must travel here. This is your task. It has no joy nor grace, but is not meant for any other hand, and in my universe half measured place. Take it. I do not bid you understand. I bid you close your eyes to see my face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Dance of Death by Michael Field. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. How lovely is a silver winter day of sturdy ice, that clogs the hidden river's tiniest bay with diamond stone of price, to make an empress cast her dazzling stones upon its light as hail. So little its effulgency condones her diamond's denser trail of radiance on the air. How strange this ice so motionless and still, yet calling as with music to our feet, so that they shave and dare their swiftest motion to repeat these harmonies of challenge, sounds that fill the floor of ice, as the crystalline sphere around the heavens is filled with such a song, that when they hear the stars, each in their heaven, are drawn along. O see a dancer, one whose feet move on unshod with steel. She is not skating fleet on toe and heel, but only tiptoe dances in a whirl, a lovely dancing girl upon the frozen surface of the stream. Without a wonder it would seem, she could not keep her sway, the balance of her limbs. Sure on the musical iced river way, that sparkling dims her trinkets as they swing so high, it sparks tingle the sun and scatter song-like larks. She dances mid the sumptuous whiteness set of winter's sunniest noon. She dances of the sun rays that forget in winter's sunset falleth soon, to sheer sunset. She dances with a langer through the frost as she had never lost, in lands where there is snow, the orient's immeasurable glow. Who is this dancer white, a creature sight, weaving the east upon a stream of ice, that in a trice might trip the dance and fling the dancer down? Does she not know deeps under ice can drown? This is Salome, in a western land, an exile with Herodias her mother, with Herod and Herodias, and she has sought the river's icy mass, companioned by no other, to dance upon the ice, each hand held as a snow-bird's wings. In heavy poise ecstatic with no noise, a thwart the ice her dream, her spell she flings, and winter in a rapture of delight flings up and down the spangles of her light. O harken, harken, ice and frost, from these cajoling notion freed, have straight given heed to Wilmore firm, in their obedience their masses dense are riven as by a sword. Where is the vision by snow adored? The vision is no more seen from the noontide shore. O fearful crash of thunder from the stream, as there were thunderclouds upon its way. Could nothing save the dancer in the noontide beam? She is engulfed in all the dances done. Bright leaps a noontide sun. But stay, what leaps beneath it? A gold head that twinkles with its jewels bright as water drops. O murdered Baptist of the severed head, her head was caught and girdle tight, and severed by the ice-brook sword, and sped in dance that never stops. It skims and hops across the ice that rasped it. Smooth and gay, and void of care, it takes its sunny way. But underneath the golden hair and underneath those jewel sparks, teen noontide marks a little face as gray as evening ice. Lips open in a scream no soul may hear. Eyes fixed as they beheld the silver plate, that they at Macgarantes once beheld, while their hair trails, although so fleet and nice, the motion of the head as subjugate to its own law. Yet in the face, what fear, to what excess compelled. Salamé's head is dancing in the bright and silver ice. O holy John, how still was laid thy head upon this salver white, when thou has done God's will. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Desiderium in Desideratum by Francis Thompson, 1859-1907 Read for LibriVox.org Desiderium in Desideratum O gain that lurk is done gained in all gain. O love we just fall short of in all love. O height that in all heights art still above. O beauty that dost leave all beauty pain. Thou unpossessed that makest possession vain. See these strained arms which fright the simple air, and say what ultimate fairness holds thee fair. They girdle heaven, and girdle heaven in vain. They shut and low, but shut in their unrest. There at a voice in me that voiceless was. Whom seekest thou through the unmarged arcane, and not discernest to thine own bosom pressed? I looked. My clasped arms athwart my breast, framed the august embraces of the cross. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Derge of Dead Sisters by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist For the nurses who died in the South African War Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air And the clink of iron teacups, and the piteous noble laughter And the faces of the sisters with the dust upon their hair. Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in her nostrils Now and not hereafter, where the meaner years go by Let us now remember many honourable women Such as bathed us turn again when we were like to die. Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains And the sunscarred red cross-coaches creeping guarded to the culvert And the faces of the sisters looking gravely from the trains When the days were torment, and the nights were clouded terror When the powers of darkness had dominion on our soul When we fled consuming through the seven hells of fever These put out their hands to us, and healed, and made us whole Who recalls the midnight by the bridge's wrecked abutment Autumn rain that rattled like a maxim on the tin And the lightning dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons And the faces of the sisters as they bore the wounded in Till the pain was merciful when stunned us into silence When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay When the body triumphed and the last pour shamed a-parted These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market Blanket hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies And the footsaw firing party and the dust and stench and stainless And the faces of the sisters and the glory in their eyes Bold behind the battle in the open camp all hallowed Patient wise and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town These endured unresting till they rested from their labours Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down Yet their graves are scattered and their names are clean forgotten Earth shall not remember, but the waiting angel knows Them that died at Outflucht when the plague was on the city Her that fell that Simon's town in service on our foes Wherefore we they ransomed while the breath is in our nostrils Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by Praise with love and worship many honourable women Those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die End of poem. This recording is in the public domain A drinking song by William Butler Yates Read for Libervox.org by Wyn Stewart Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye That's all we shall know for truth before we grow old and die I lift a glass to my mouth, I look at you and sigh End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Ephemera by Hazel Hall Read for Libervox.org by Mike Overby Midland, Washington There is a woman who makes my eye a place of shadows as now and then I see her dimly going by and faintly coming back again She moves as many others move there is no utterance in her tread To tempt and echo nor to prove what other footsteps have not said As often as she comes and goes she is forgotten As now and then the wind is forgotten until it blows a blur of dust down the street again End of poem. This recording is in the public domain An epilogue by Wilfred Wilson Gibson Read for Libervox.org by Mike Overby Midland, Washington Ghosts of my fathers while you keep on ghostly hills your ghostly sleep If for a moment you should turn the pages of this book to learn What trade your offsprings taken to Forgive me that my flocks and herds are only barren bleeding words End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Epitaph on a Vagabond by Alexander Gray Read for Libervox.org by Mike Overby Midland, Washington Careless I lived accepting day by day the lavish venison of sun and rain Watching the changing seasons pass away and come again Now the great harvester has stilled my breath In this cold house I neither hear nor see Though in my life I never thought of death Death thought of me End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Escape by Emily Dickinson Read for Libervox.org by Emily I never heard the word escape without a quicker blood a sudden expectation a flying attitude I never hear of prisons broad by soldiers battered down But I tugged childish at my bars only to fail again End of poem. This recording is in the public domain The Exile by Speranza Lady Wilde Read for Libervox.org by Thomas Peter Springs sweet odors from the meadow Fling their fragrance far and wide And the tall trees cast the shadow of the winter's gloom aside But for me no spring is bearing gladness to my heart despairing Comes no more with soothing power Kindly voice or friendly hand Song of home or breath of flower From my own dear native land High in heaven circling nightly Moon and stars shine overhead Mighty rivers rush on brightly to the ocean's distant bed But for me in sorrow pining Star and stream and vein are shining Foreign skies are drear above me By a foreign shore I stand Thinking of the friends that love me In my own dear far off land End of poem. This recording is in the public domain The Falling of the Leaves by William Butler Yates Read for Libervox.org by Wyn Stewart Autumn is over the long leaves that love us And over the mice in the barley sheaves Yellow the leaves of the round above us And yellow the wet while strawberry leaves The hour of the waning of love has beset us And weary and worn are our sad souls now Let us part, hear the season of passion forget us With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow End of poem. This recording is in the public domain A Forsaken Garden by Algernon Charles Swinburne Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist In a coin of the cliff between Lowland and Highland At the sea down's edge between Windward and Lee Walled round with rocks as an inland island The ghost of a garden fronts the sea A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope Of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green From the graves of its roses Now lie dead The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken To the low last edge of the long lone land If a step should sound or a word be spoken Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand So long have the gray bear walks lane guestless Through branches and briars if a man make way He shall find no life but the sea winds Restless night and day The dense hard passage is blind and stifled That crawls by a track None turn to climb To the straight waste place That the years have rifled Of all but the thorns That are touched not of time The thorns he spares when the rose is taken The rocks are left when he wastes the plain The wind that wanders, the weeds wind shaken These remain Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not As the heart of a dead man the seed plots are dry From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not Could she call, there were never a rose to reply Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of a seabird's song Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long The sun burns sear and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of sentless breath Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death Here there was laughing of old There was weeping happily of lovers None ever will know whose eyes went seaward A hundred sleeping years ago Hot and fast in heart as they stood Look thither, did he whisper Look forth from the flowers to the sea For the foam flowers endure When the rose blossoms wither And men that love lightly may die But we and the same wind sang And the same waves whitened And, or ever, the garden's last petals were shared In the lips that had whispered The eyes that had lightened Love was dead, or they loved their life through And then went wither And were one to the end But what end who knows Love deep as the sea, as a rose must wither As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them What love was ever as deep as a grave They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave All are at one now, roses and lovers Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be Not a breath shall there sweeten The seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep When, as they that are free now Of weeping and laughter We shall sleep Here death may deal not again forever Here change may come not till all change end From the graves they have made They shall rise up never Who have left not living to ravage and rend Earth stones and thorns of the wild ground growing While the sun and the rain live These shall be Till the last wind's breath Upon all these blowing Roll the sea Till the slow sea rise And the sheer cliff crumble Till terrace and meadow The deep gulf's drink Till the strength of the waves Of the high tides humble The fields that lessen The rocks that shrink Here now in his triumph Where all things falter Stretched out on the spoils That his own hand spread As a god self slain On his own strange altar Death lies dead End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Gift to Sing by James Weldon Johnson Read for LibriVox.org by Mystic Rune Sometimes the mist overhangs my path And blackening clouds about me cling But, oh, I have a magic way To turn the gloom to cheerful day I softly sing And if the way grows darker still Shattered by sorrow's sumber wing With glad defiance in my throat I pierce the darkness with a note And sing and sing I brood not over the broken past Nor dread whatever time may bring No nights are dark, no days are long While in my heart there swells a song And I can sing End of poem This recording is in the public domain Gone by Nanny Rebecca Glass Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk Upon time surging, billowy sea A ship now slowly disappears With freight no human eye can see But weighing just 100 years Their sighs, their tears, their weary moans Their joy and pleasure, Pump and pride, their angry And their gentle tones Beneath its waves, forever hide Yes, sunk within oblivion's waves They'll partly live in memory To youth who will their secrets crave Mostly exist in history Ah, what a truth steps in this strain They are not lost within time's sea Their words and actions live again And blight or light eternity A new ship comes within our view Layed in with dreams, both sad and blessed To youth they're tinged, with rosy at hue To weary ones, bring longed for rest And still the stream of life flows on Laughing beneath the century new God's promise yields the horizon Mercy shall reign, his word is true And a poem, this recording is in the public domain Read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America Growing blind, among all the others there sat a guest Who sipped her tea as if one apart And she held her cup not quite like the rest Once she smiled so it pierced one's heart When the group of people arose at last And laughed and talked in a merry tone As lingeringly, through the rooms they passed I saw that she followed alone Tense and still, like one, who to sing must rise Before throng on a fest all night She lifted her head and her bright, glad eyes Were like pools which reflected light She followed on slowly after the last As though some object must be passed by And yet, as if were it once but past She would no longer walk but fly End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Haymakers, Rakers, Reapers and Moors, by Thomas Decker Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf Haymakers, Rakers, Reapers and Moors, wait on your summer queen Dress up with musk-rows, her eglantine bowers, daffodils strew the green Sing, dance, and play, tis holiday, the sun does bravely shine On our ears of corn, rich as a pearl, comes every girl This is mine, this is mine, this is mine Let us die, ere away they be born Bow to the sun, to our queen and that fair one Come to behold our sports Each bunny-last here is counted a rare one As those in princes' courts These and we, with country glee, will teach the woods to resound And the hills with echoes hollow Skipping lambs, their bleating dams Monks' kids shall trip it round For joy thus our winches we follow When, jolly huntsman, your neat bugle shrilly Hounds make a lusty cry Spring up you falconers, partridges freely Then let your brave hawks fly Horses amane, over ridge, over plain The dogs have the stag in chase Tis a sport to content a king So ho-ho through the skies How the proud bird flies And sowsing kills with a grace Now the deer falls, hark, how they ring End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The heralds cry in the desert, by Hannah F. Gold, read for LibberVox.org by Chalt Horner from Balamoney in County Antrim, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Awake, O ye nations, and shake, The slumber of death from your eyes We hold the fair morn in its bricking The sun of all glory arise He comes, mist and dimness dispelling The shadows and clouds flee away Ho, all, that in darkness or dwelling Spring up and rejoice in the day Ye dying, life's waters revealing He'll show you the fountain and streams Ye wounded, for you he brings healing Come out and repose in his beams Come, all ye disconsolate, healing Your king and his beauty amite His raiment, Mount Ebal is veiling Mount Gerizim shines in his light O praise him ye weary in wonder To fill your hard burdens unbound Ye captives, your bars fall asunder With shouting sleep forth at the sound Your names on his breastplate he's wearing They're set as the seal of his ring Ye nations, your highways preparing Receive and be glad in your king End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Holy Sonnet Ten by John Dunne, read for LibberVox.org by Harlem Attic Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, For thou art not so. For those whom thou thinkest to thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, Which but thy pictures be much pleasure Than 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 a slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And popular charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke, why swellst 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 I'm Nobody Who Are You by Emily Dickinson, read for LibberVox.org by Emily I'm Nobody Who Are You, Are You Nobody Too? Then there's a pair of us, don't tell, they'd adverse, you know, how dreary to be somebody, how public, like a frog, to tell you name the Live Long June to an admiring bog. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain In April by Rainier Maria Rilke, read for LibberVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America. In April, again, the woods are odorous, the lark lifts on upsoring wings, the heaven gray, that hung above the treetops, veiled and dark, where branches bare disclosed to the empty day. After long rainy afternoons an hour comes with its shafts of golden light and flings, them at the windows in a radiant shower, and raindrops beat the pains like timorous wings. Then all is still, the stones are crooned to sleep, by the soft sound of rain that slowly dies, and cradled in the branches, hidden deep, in each bright bud a slumbering silence lies. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Let the bees go honey-hunting with yellow blur of wings in the dome of my head, in the rumblings singing arch of my skull. Let there be wings in yellow dust and the drone of dreams of honey, who loses and remembers, who keeps and forgets. In a blue sheen of moon over the bones and under the hanging honeycomb the bees come home, and the bees sleep. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Darts can fly. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Rich men, trust not in wealth. Gold cannot buy you health. Physic himself must fade. All things to end are made. The plague full swift goes by. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour. Brightness falls from the air. Queens have died young and fair. Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Strength stoops into the grave. Worms feed on hector brave. Swords may not fight with fate. Earth still holds open her gate. Calm, calm, the bells do cry. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Wit with his wantonness. Tasteth death's bitterness. Hell's executioner hath no ears for to hear. What feign art can reply. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Haste, therefore, each degree. To welcome destiny. Heaven is our heritage. Earth but a player's stage. Mount we into the sky. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. Lullaby by Louisa May Alcott, read for libraryvox.org by Gerges. Now the day is done. Now the shepherd's son drives his white flocks from the sky. Now the flowers rest on their mother's breast, hushed by her low lullaby. Now the globeworms glance. Now the fireflies dance under firm vows green and high, and the western breeze to the forest trees chants a tuneful lullaby. Now midshadows deep fall's blessed sleep like dew from the summer sky, and the whole earth dreams in the moonsoft beams while night breathes a lullaby. Now birdlings rest in your wind rock nest, unscared by the owls' shrill cry, for with folded wings, little briar swings, and singeth your lullaby. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Madness by Rainier Maria Rilke, read for libraryvox.org by April, 6090, California, United States of America. Madness. She thinks I am. Have you not seen? Who are you then, Marie? I am a queen. I am a queen. To your knee. To your knee. And then she weeps. I was a child. Who were you then, Marie? Know you that I was no man's child? Poor and in rags, said she. And then a princess I became. To whom men bend their knees. To princes things are not the same, as those a beggar sees. And those things which have made you great came to you tell me when. One night, one night, one night quite late. Things became different then. I walked the lane which presently with strung cords seemed to bend. Then Marie became melody and danced from end to end. The people watched with startled mean and passed with frightened glance. For I'll know that only a queen may dance in the lanes, dance. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Give you what, seriously, my autograph? Why, at the bare suggestion, I must laugh. Yet laughing, spiked myself, I blush for shame. To feel you scarce could read my scribbled name. Yet Byron, great ingenious, scrawled no better. And mighty Pope could hardly form a letter. And bowing at their shrine I imitate. All I can reach, the foibles of the great. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. And will that she be, that busks her fists, rock, whether lint or the lay, whirling her spindle and twisting her twine, wins either right, pern, into the right shrine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. NOS IMMORTALIS By Steven Vincent Benet Red for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon Perhaps we go with wind and cloud and sun into the free companionship of air. Perhaps with sunsets when the day is done. All's one to me, I do not greatly care. So long as there are brown hills and a tree, like a mad prophet in a land of dearth, and I can lie and hear eternally the vast monotonous breathing of the earth. I have known hours, slow and golden glowing, lovely with laughter and suffused with light. O Lord, in such a time appoint my going, when the hands clench and the cold face grows white, and the spark dies within the feeble brain, spilling its stardust back to dust again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh no, we never mention her by Thomas Haynes Bailey. Red for LibriVox.org by Bill Riccardi. Oh no, we never mention her. Her name is never heard. My lips are now forbid to speak that once familiar word. From sport to sport they hurry me to banish my regret, and when they win a smile from me they think that I forget. They bid me seek and change of seeing the charms that others see, but where I in a foreign land they'd find no change in me. It is true that I behold no more the valley where we met. I do not see the Hawthorn Tree, but how can I forget? For oh, there are so many things recall the past to me. The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea, the rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set. I, every leaf I look upon, forbids me to forget. They tell me she is happy now, the gayest of the gay. The hint that she forgets me too, I heed not what they say. Perhaps like me she struggles with each feeling of regret, but if she loves as I have loved she never can forget. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Old Men Admarrying Themselves in the Water by William Butler Yates. Read for LibriVox.org by Wyn Stewart. I heard the old, old men say everything alters, and one by one we drop away. They had hands like claws and their knees were twisted like the old thorn trees by the waters. I heard the old, old men say all that's beautiful drifts away like the waters. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Old Streveline by James Hogg. Read for LibriVox.org by Bill Riccardi. Old Streveline, thou stanths beautyous on the height, amid thy peaceful veils of every dye, amid bewildered waves of silvery light, that maize the mind and toil the raptured eye, thy distant mountains spiring to the sky, seen blended with the mansions of the blessed. How proudly rise their gilded points on high, above the morning cloud and man's behest, like thrones of angels hung upon the welkin's breast. For these I love thee, but I love thee more, for the gray relics of thy marshal towers, thy mouldering palaces and rampant's whore, throned on the granite pile that grimly lours. Memorial of the times when hostile powers so often prove thy steadfast patriot worth. May every honour wait thy future hours, and glad the children of thy kindred forth. I love thy very name, Old Bulwark of the North. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On Death by Kilil Gibran Read for Libbervox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in County Antwerp, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Then Almitra spoke, saying, We would ask an oil of death, and he said, You would know the secret of death, but how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The oil whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If ye would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond, and like seeds streaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king, yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing, and when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb, and when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance, and now it was evening. And Amitra the Seerah said, Blessed be this day and this place and your spirit that has spoken, and he answered, Was it I who spoke? Was it not also a listener? Out of the Depths by Benjamin Copeland Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Almighty Sovereign of the Sea Make known thy matchless majesty Rebuke the raging of the deep, embedded, surging billows sleep Great God, regard thy servant's prayer, and grant us still thy gracious care Spare us, O Lord, our lives prolong and turn our sorrow into song Out of the Depths we cry to thee, O let us thy salvation see Thy tender pity may we prove, thy changeless everlasting love Through gloom and tempest guide our way, the sea is thine, it owns thys way The winds and waves obey thy will, hust when they hear thy peace be still On thee alone our hope is stained, O be thou our unfailing aid, Till in the haven of thy breast we share thy saints eternal rest In the poem this recording is in the public domain O What is Life by William B. Tappen Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia O What is Life O What is Life but some dark dream, from which we wake to shy Some false deceitful meteor beam, that sheds a wandering, cheerless gleam And brightens but to die O What are fleeting joys below, but cares bedecked with smiles The pageant of an empty show, that feign would hide the latent woe From him it oft beguiles And what the secret pensive tear, but kindly dews of even Each drop, perlucid glistening clear, to sympathy, to virtue dear, is quick exhaled to heaven End of poem This recording is in the public domain Would my song might blossom out in little five-leaved stanzas As delicate in fancies as your beauty is to me But my eyes shall smile on you, and my hands infold you Pet, caress, and lift you to the lips that love you so That, shut ever in the years that may mildew or mold you, My fancy shall behold you fair as in the long ago End of poem This recording is in the public domain Within me that crumbles to obey, perceive and know Thy secret desire from day to day Even as Thy roses know where they stand Before the wind Thy presence tremble at Thy hand Make me, Lord, for beauty only this I pray Let my brother roses growing day by day Body, soul, and spirit, as Thy voice may urge From the wondrous twilight at the garden's verge Till I be as they be fair, then blown away With a name like Ahtar, remembered for a day End of poem This recording is in the public domain Consternation and wild despair The queen was wringing her hands and hair The maids of honour were sad and solemn The pages looked blank as they stood in column The court jester blubbered The cook in the kitchen dropped tears in the stew And all through the castle went sob and wail For the princess had broken her fingernail The beautiful princess, red as a rose, Bride-elect of the Lord high-nose, Broken her fingernail down to the quick No wonder the queen and her court were sick Never sorrow so dread before Had dared to enter that castle door Oh, what would my Lord his high-nose say When she took off her glove on her wedding day The therapist's princess in nonsense land With a broken fingernail on her hand It was a terrible, terrible accident And they called a meeting of parliament And never before that royal court Had come such question of grave import as How could you hurry a nail to grow? And the skill of the kingdom was called to show They sent for Monsieur Philemonth He smoothed down the corners so ragged and rough They sent for Madame Le Diamond Dust Who lived on the fingers of Upper Crust They sent for Professor de Chamois Skin Who took her powder and rubbed it in They sent for the pudgy nurse fat on the bone To bathe her finger in eau de cologne And they called the court surgeon, Monsieur Redtape, To hear what he thought of the new nail's shape Over the kingdom the telegrams flew Which told how the fingernail thrived and grew And all through the realm of nonsense land They offered up prayers for the princess's hand At length the glad tidings were heard with a shout That the princess's fingernail had grown out Pointed and polished and pink and clean Befitting the hand of a some-day queen Salutes were fired all over the land By the home-guard battery-pop gun-band And great was the joy of my Lord high-nose Who straightaway ordered his wedding-clothes And Paisus Taylor, don, wait for I Who died of amazement the self-same day My Lord, by a jury, was judged insane For they said, and the truth of the saying was plain, That a Lord of such very high pedigree Would never be paying his bills, you see, Unless he was out of his head And so they locked him up without more ado And the beautiful princess read as a rose Pine for her lover, my Lord high-nose Till she entered a convent and took the veil And this is the end of my nonsense tale End of poem This recording is in the public domain Rain after a vaudeville show By Steven Vincent Pinais Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon The last pose flickered failed The screen's dead white glared in a sudden flooding Of harsh light stabbing the eyes And as I stumbled out the curtain rose A fat girl with a pout and legs like hams Began to sing his mother Guts of bad air rose in a choking smother Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush I stepped into the lobby and stood still Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will Cleanness and rapture, excellence made plain The storming thrashing arrows of the rain Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky Crashing on thirsty pains, on gutters dry Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair the streets The houses and the heat-soaked air Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing It smote the soul with the most iron clashing Like dragon's eyes the streetlamps suddenly gleamed Yellow and round and dim low globes of flame And scarce perceived the clouds' tall banners streamed Out of the petty wars, the daily shame Beauty strove suddenly and rose and flowered I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered Made one with hissing blackness caught embraced By splendor and by striving in swift haste Spring coming in with thunderings and strife I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life End of poem This recording is in the public domain You see, when his folks got out of viddles Just my luck, says he Fellow offered him ten dollars if he'd worked two days Riley crossed his legs and looked up through the sun's hot rays Then he leaned back in the shadow, sadly shook his head Never asked me till hot weather, just my luck, he said Riley courted Sally Hopkins in a quiet way When he saw Jim Dobson kiss her Just my luck, he'd say Leapier came and Mandy Perkins sought his company Riley sighed and married Mandy Just my luck, he'd say Riley took his wife out fishing in a little boat Storm blew up and turned them over Mandy couldn't float Riley sprang into the river seized her by the hair Swam a mile into the shore where friends pulled out the pair Mandy was so full of water, seemed she'd surely die Doctors worked with her two hours ere she moved an eye They told Riley she was better Doctors were in glee Riley chewed an old pine splinter Just my luck, says he End of poem This recording is in the public domain The shooting of Dan McGrew by Robert S. Service Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson A bunch of boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon The kid that handles the music box was hitting a jag time too Back of the bar in a solo game Set dangerous Dan McGrew And watching his luck was his light of love The lady that's known as Lou Went out of the night which was fifty below And into the den and the glare There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks Dog dirty and loaded for bear He looked like a man with a foot in the grave And scarcely the strength of a louse Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar And he called for drinks for the house There was none could place a stranger's face Though we searched ourselves for a clue But we drank his health and the last to drink Was dangerous Dan McGrew There's men that somehow just grip your eyes And hold them hard like a spell And such was he and he looked to me Like a man who had lived in hell With a face most hair And dreary stare of a dog whose day is done As he watered the green stuff in his glass And the drops fell one by one Then I got to figuring who he was And wondering what he'd do And I turned my head and there watching him Was the lady that's known as Lou His eyes went rubbering around the room And he seemed in a kind of daze Till at last that old piano fell In the way of his wandering gaze The ragtime kid was having a drink There was no one else on the stool So the stranger stumbles across the room And flops down there like a fool In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat And I saw him sway Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands My God, but that man could play Were you ever out in the great alone When the moon was awful clear And the icy mountains hemmed you in With a silence you most could hear With only the howl of a timber-wolf And you camp there in the cold A half-dead thing in a stark dead world Clean mad for the muck called gold While high overhead green yellow and red The north lights swept in bars Then you've a hunch what the music meant Hunger and night and the stars And hunger not of the belly kind That's banished with bacon and beans But the gnawing hunger of lonely men For a home and all that that means For a fireside far from the cares that are Four walls and a roof above But oh so cramful of cozy joy And crowned with a woman's love A woman dearer than all the world And true as heaven is true God, how ghastly she looks through her rouge The lady that's known as Lou Then on a sudden the music changed So soft that you scarce could hear But you felt that your life had been looted Clean of all that it once held dear That someone had stolen the woman you loved That her love was a devil's lie That your guts were gone And the best for you was to crawl away and die It was the crowning cry of a heart's despair And it thrilled you through and through I guess I'll make it a spread, monsieur Said Dangerous Stan McGrew The music almost died away Then it burst like a pent-up flood And it seemed to say repay, repay And my eyes were blind with blood The thought came back of an ancient wrong And it stung like a frozen lash And the lust awoke to kill, to kill Then the music stopped with a crash And the stranger turned And his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat And I saw him sway Then his lips went in In a kind of grin And he spoke and his voice was calm And boys said he You don't know me And none of you care a damn But I want to state and my words are straight And I'll bet my poke they're true That one of you is a hound of hell And that one is Dan McGrew Then I ducked my head and the lights went out And two guns blazed in the dark And a woman screamed, the lights went up And two men lay stiff and stark Pitched on his head and pumped full of lead Was dangerous Dan McGrew While the man from the creek slay clutched To the breast of the lady that's known as Lou These are the simple facts of the case And I guess I ought to know They say the stranger was crazed with hooch And I'm not denying it so I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys But strictly between us two The woman that kissed him And pinched his poke Was the lady that's known as Lou End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments Love is not love which alters when its alteration finds Or bends with the remover to remove Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempest and is never shaken It is the star to every wandering bark Whose worst unknown Although his heights be taken Love's not time's full Though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks But bears it out even to the edge of doom If this be error and upon me proved I never writ nor no man ever loved End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sonnet 130 by William Shakespeare Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun Coral is far more red than her lips red If snow be white why then her breasts are done If hairs be wires Black wires grow on her head I have seen Rosie's damast red and white But no such roses see I in her cheeks And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks I love to hear her speak Yet well I know that music has a far more pleasing sound I grant I never saw a goddess go My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground And yet by heaven I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state And travel deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate Wishing be like to one more rich in hope Featured like him, like him with friends possessed Desiring this man's art and that man's scope With what I most enjoy contented least Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising Happily I think on thee And then my state, like to the lark at break of day A rising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate For thy sweet love remembered such wealth Brings that then I scorn to change my state with kings End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Suicides Grave by Dora Sigerson Shorter This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grothman The Suicides Grave by Dora Sigerson Shorter This is the scene of a man's despair and a soul's release From the difficult traits of the flesh So it's seeking peace A shot rang out in the night Death's doors were wide And you stood alone, a stranger, and saw inside Coward flesh, brave soul, which was it? One feared the world, the pity of men, or their scorn Yet carelessly hurled all on the balance of chance For a state unknown Fled the laughter of men, for the anger of God alone Perhaps when the hot blood streamed on the daisied sod Poor soul, you were likened to Cain, and you fled from God Men say you fought hard for your life, when the deed was done But your body would rise no more, neath this world's sun I'd choose, should I do the act, such a night is this When the sea throws up white arms, for the wild winds kiss When the waves shake the shuttering shore with their foamy jaws Tear the strand, till slipping pebbles freak through their claws The sky is loud with storm, not a bird dare span From here to the mist beasts are silent, yet for a man For a soul springing naked to meet its judge a night That were, as a brother, to this poor spirit's long flight But he had chosen, they tell me, a dusk so fair One almost thought there were not such another there The air was full of perfume of pines And the sweet sleepy chirp of birds long the lush soft grass at his feet They say there was dancing, too, in a house close by That they heard the shot just thinking wild birds must die They supped and laughed, went singing the long night through And they danced, unknowing, the dance of death with you What did you hear when you opened the doors of death Was it the sob of a thrush or the slow sweet breath Of the perfumed air that blew through the doors with you That you fought so hard to regain the world you knew? Or was it a woman's cry that shrieking into the gloom Like a hand that closed on your soul clutching it from its doom Was it a mother's call or the touch of a baby's kiss That followed your desperate soul down the black abyss What did you see as you stood on the other side A strange shy soul among souls did you seek to hide From the ghosts that were who judged you upon your way Reckoning your sins against theirs for the judgment day You feared the world, the pity of men or their scorn The movements of fate and the sorrows for which you were born Men's laughter, men's speech, they're judging what was it to this Where the eyes of the dead proclaim you have gone amiss Not peace did you gain, perhaps, nor the rest you had planned Neath the horrible countless eyes that you could not withstand Or was it God looking from his throne in a moment's disdain And you shrieked for the trial once more in the height of your pain Perhaps, but who knows, when you struggled so hard for life's breath You saw nothing passing the grave except silence and death You lay shut in by the four clay walls of your cell There the live soul locked up in the stiff body's shell Dead, dead and coffined, buried beneath the clay And still the living soul caged in to wait decay For ever alone in the night of unlifting gloom There to think and think and think in the silent tomb Or was it in death's cold hand there was no perfume Of the scented flowers or the lilt of the bird's gay tune No sea there or no cool of the wind's fresh breath No woods no planes no dreams and alas no death Was there no life there that man's brain could understand No past no future hopes to come in that strange land No human love no sleep no day no night but ever eternal living in eternal light Perhaps the soul thus springing to fill its grave Found all the peace and happiness that it could crave All it had lost alone was the poor body's part Which not but gray corruption saw for its chart Ah, well, for us there ended all one man's life with this A shot, a cry, a struggle, and a fainting woman's kiss Life's blood let mid the grasses and all the world was lost And no one may ever know how he paid the cost He is lost in the crowd of the dead in the night time of death A name on a stone left to tell that he ever drew breath So desperate body die there with your soul's long release And unhappy spirit God grant you eternity's peace And of poem this recording is in the public domain Sweet content by Thomas Decker Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf Art thou poor yet hast thou golden slumbers O sweet content, art thou rich yet is thy mind perplexed O punishment, thus thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content Work a pace, a pace, a pace, a pace Honest labor bears a lovely face Then hey, nonny, nonny, hey, nonny, nonny Can't drink the waters of the crisped spring, O sweet content Swims thou in wealth yet synced in thine own tears, O punishment Then he that patiently wants burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king, O sweet content O sweet, O sweet content Work a pace, a pace, a pace A pace, honest labor bears a lovely face Then hey, nonny, nonny, hey, nonny, nonny End of poem this recording is in the public domain They're coming by Nanny Rebecca Glass Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok They're coming and it seems so long Since sadly autumn laid them low They left us with the robin song They left us to the ice and snow They're coming so the march windseth Though singing songs with icy breath He's chanting of another may He's chanting of King Winter's death They're coming, nith the forests mold In mossy beds of ferny soil Slowly their tiny robes unfold Yet do they neither spin nor toil They're coming with their influence pure Their emblematic power again Of him who would our steps allure To realms of love devoid of pain They're coming with the summer's breeze With azure skies and sunny showers With notes of birds and hum of bees Who will not welcome back the flowers End of poem this recording is in the public domain Wapshotpress.org Many on thy buds may gaze Many all their beauty see None can feel should thousands praise Half the charm they have for me They have blossomed on my breast When each pulse with joy beat high To my lips been fondly pressed Air those lips had breathed aside They have reefed my careless brow When through festive halls I strayed Deck the home forsaken now Which their presence lovelier made Festive halls I tread no more Roses twine not round my brow Yet thou art dearer than before I, oh, I am happier now Though thy buds no longer bloom In the bower I love so well Though they shed their sweet perfume When disease and suffering dwell Yet this chamber they adorn Rings with laughter known to few Usher's joy with every mourn Echoes words as warm as true In that chamber hearts are breathing Which can feel no changeful thrill And my glance is ever-greeding Eyes that love illumine still Sacred florets cherish long Once your beauty I admire Once your tints awoke my song Once your fragrant breath inspired Now you speak a holier tongue Than my spirit then could hear Now a charm is round you flung Which I study and revere Each leaf is wisdom shrine Every bud and emblem given Breathing of truth divine Intertwining earth and heaven And of poem This reading is in the public domain How quailed is thy pinion How sullied its glory Where blood flowed like water Exalting its body Destruction and slaughter Behind and before thee Where glory was blushing Thy flight was the flitest Where death's sleep was hushing Thy slumber was sweetest When broad sorts were clashing Thy cry was the loudest When deep they were gashing Thy plume was the proudest But triumph is over No longer victorious No more shall thou hover Destructively glorious Far from the battle's shock Fate hath fast bounty Chained to the rugged rock Waves warring round thee Instead of the trumpet sound Seabirds are shrieking Horse on thy ramparts bound Billows are breaking The standards which led thee Are trampled and torn now The flatteries which fed thee Are turned into scorn now For enzymes unfurling Like sunbeams in brightness Are crested waves curling Like snow reeds in whiteness No sycophants mock thee With dreams of dominion But rude tempests rock thee And ruffle thy pinion Thy last flight is taken Hope leaves thee forever And victory shall waken Thy proud spirit never End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Tower by Robert Nichols Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson It was deep night And over Jerusalem's low roofs The moon floated Drifting through high vapor's woofs The moonlight crept and glistened Silent solemn sweet Over dormant column Up empty endless street In the closed scented gardens The rose loosed from the stem Her white showery petals None regarded them The starry thicket breathed odors To the sentinel palm Silence possessed the city Like a soul possessed by calm Not a spark in the warn under the giant night Saved where in a turd's lantern Beamed a grave still light There in the topmost chamber A gold-eyed lamp was lit Marvelous lamp in darkness Informing, redeeming it Forset in that tiny chamber Jesus, the blessed and doomed Spoke to the lone apostles As light to men entombed And spreading his hands in blessing As one soon to be dead He put soft enchantment Into spare wine and bread The hearts of the disciples Were broken and full of tears Because their lord, the spearless Was hedged about with spears And in his face the sickness of departure Had spread a gloom At leaving his young friends friendless They could not forget the tomb He smiled subduedly Telling in tone soft his voice of the dove The endlessness of sorrow The eternal solace of love And lifting their earthly tokens Wine and sorrowful bread He bade them sup And remembered one who lived and was dead And they could not restrain their weeping But one rose up to depart Having weakness and hate of weakness Raging within his heart He bowed to the robe assembly Whose eyes gleamed wet in the light Judas arose and departed Night went out to the night Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain In an ocean of tears And comforted his disciples And calmed and allayed their fears But Judas wound down the turret Creeping from floor to floor And would fly But one leaning weeping barred him beside the door And he knew her by her ruddy garment And two yet-watching men Mary of seven evils Mary Magdalene And he was frightened at her She sighed I dreamed him dead We sailed the body for silver Then Judas cried out and fled forth into the night The moon had begun to set A drear deft wind went sifting Setting the dust afret Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayed To stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid But in the tiny lantern hanging as if on air The disciples sat unspeaking A maze and peace were there For his voice, more lovely than song Of all earthly birds And accents humble and happy spoke low, consoling words Thus Jesus discoursed And was silent, sitting upright And soon past the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon And rising for Olivet All stared between love and dread Seeing the torred moon, a ruddy halo Behind his head In the poem, this recording is in the public domain To lean on thee my weak and weary head Then evening comes The winter sky is wild The leafless trees are black The leaves long dead A little while to hold thee And to stand by harvest fields Of bending golden corn Then the predestined silence And thine hand lost in the night Long and weary And forlorn A little while to love thee Scarsly time to love thee well enough Then time to part To fare through wintry fields alone And climb the frozen hills Not knowing where thou art Short summer time and then My heart desire the winter and the darkness One by one the roses fall The pale roses expire Beneath the slow decadence of the sun End of poem This recording is in the public domain Or mortal heart two cupids rain Of both was Venus' mother In olden days but one could chain The worldlings now the second feign Is mightier than his brother The younger whom men latest knew To earth belongs not heaven Right eyes happy and keen their view A lip so sweet your deem it true And wings to him are given With beauty's locks he plumes his dart But some say often far With gold entwine his arrow's part For such more surely pierce the heart Yet leave behind no scar This breath from heaven the other drew And yet still he rules on high His voice can heart of steel subdue And faults his light shaft never flew Those sightless in his eye They are who deem this god hath wings Or time his claims can sever Round changeless soul his bond he flings And where his myrtle branch once springs It lives and blooms forever End of poem This reading is in The Public Domain Under the Waterfall by Thomas Hardy Read for LibriVox.org by Michael Max Whenever I plunge my arm like this in a basin of water I never miss the sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from its thickening shroud of grey Hence the only prime and real love rhyme that I know by heart And that leaves no smart Is the pearl of a little valley fall About three spans wide and two spans tall Over a table of solid rock and into a scoop of the self-same block The pearl of a runlet that never ceases in stare of kingdoms In wars, in pieces With the hollow, boiling voice it speaks And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks And why gives this the only prime idea to you of a real love rhyme? And why does plunging your arm in a bowl full of spring water Bring throbs to your soul? Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone Though where precisely none ever has known, jammed darkly Nothing to show how prized and by now with its smoothness Opalised is a drinking-glass For down that pass my lover and I walked Under a sky of blue with a leaf-woven awning of green In the burn of August to paint the scene And we placed our basket of fruit and wine by the runlet's rim Where we sat to dine, and when we had drunk from the glass together Arched by the oak-cops from the weather I held the vessel To rinse in the fall where it slipped and sank And was past recall, though we stooped and plumbed The little abyss with long, bareed arms There the glass still is And, as said, if I thrust my arm below cold water in basin or bowl A throw from the past awakens a sense of that time And the glass both used and the cascade's rhyme The basin seems the pool and its edge the hard smooth face of the brookside ledge And the leafy pattern of the china where the hanging plants that were bathing there By night, by day, when it shines or lowers there lies intact that chalice of ours And its presence adds to the rhyme of love persistently sung by the fall above No lip has touched it since his and mine in turns therefrom Sipped lovers' wine End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Vampire Lately would I, like the other dead, my grave in quiet keep Yet a ban eternal, cursed, makes me wonder when I'll sleep Peaceful in the azure moonbeams rest the vaults where others dwell From my heavy marble tombstone burning pangs my path in pale Gloomy pinions burst from out me through my soul fierce longing's thrill Over hill and dale to wander yearnings drive me against my will Where my tender bride reposeth sultry dreams of living love Or her form a somber whore light of water from up above Now I tremble o'er her forehead, now the taper flickers low Now I faint from glowing passion, yet away I cannot go Well, I know my breath's destruction, she whom I may kiss is dead Yet I press the fatal signet on the lips, so full and red Hark, avant, the cock is crowing, pale and cold the maiden lies Deep within my grave I'll borrow back the marble ormy flies End of poem This recording is in the public domain Watchmen By John Boring 1792-1872 Read for LibriVox.org Watchmen Tell us of the night, what its signs of promise are Traveller Or John Mountain's height, see the glory beaming star Watchmen Does its beautyous ray ought of hope or joy foretell? Traveller Yes, it brings the day, promise day of Israel Watchmen Tell us of the night, higher yet that star ascends Traveller Blessedness and light, peace and truth its course portends Watchmen Will its beams alone gild the spot that gave them birth? Traveller Ages are its own, see it bursts o'er all the earth Watchmen Tell us of the night, for the morning seems to dawn Traveller Darkness takes its flight, doubt and terror are withdrawn Watchmen Let thy wandering cease, hide thee to thy quiet home Traveller Low, the prince of peace, low, the son of God is come End of poem This recording is in the public domain Who Goes with Fergus By William Butler Yates Read for LibriVox.org By Caspian Isen Who will go dry with Fergus now And pierce the deep woods woven shade And dance upon the level shore Young man, lift up your rusted brow And lift your tender eyelids made And brood on hopes and fear no more And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery For Fergus rules the brazen castes And rules the shadows of the wood And the white breast of the dim sea And all this shuffled, wandering stars End of poem This recording is in the public domain Words for Departure By Louise Bogan Read for LibriVox.org By Winston Tharp Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements The windowsills were wet from rain in the night Birds scattered and settled over chimney-pots As among grotesque trees Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour The afternoon sifted coolness And people drew together in streets becoming deserted There was a moon and light in a shopfront And dusk falling like precipitous water Hand clasped hand Forage still bound to forage Nothing was lost, nothing possessed There was no gift nor denial Two, I have remembered you You were not the town visited once Nor the road falling behind running feet You were as awkward as flesh And lighter than frost or ashes You were the rind and the white-juiced apple The song and the words waiting for music Three You have learned the beginning Go from mind to the other Be together, eat, dance, despair, sleep Be threatened, endure You will know the way of that But at the end be insolent Be absurd, strike the thing short off Be mad Only do not let talk wear the bloom from silence And go away without fire or lantern Let there be some uncertainty about your departure And a poem This recording is in the public domain