 THE MOON IS A PAINER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Andrea Fiori. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride, and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him with more care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride, and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Glenn Simonson. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him with more care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride, and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride, and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride, and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Mike Venditti, MikeVenditti.com. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his blessed saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride and more than bride. The citizen and sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. THE MOON IS A PAINTER by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Fetterman. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly. Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise, chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. The moon is a painter by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly, her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise, chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The moon is a painter by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Tracy Datlin. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly, her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise, chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The moon is a painter by Vechea Lindsey, read for LibriVox.org by Tommy Hersant. He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor in that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, but bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly, her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp, to find a cloak, a book, and on the vexing portrait by Moonrise, chanced to look. The color scheme was out of key. The maiden rose-smile faint. But through the blessed darkness she gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white immortal, his bride and more than bride. The citizen, the sage of mind, for whom he lived and died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.