 The Daydream by Thomas Moore Red for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts They both were hushed, the voice, the chords, I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes, and few the words, my spellbound memory brought away, traces, remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air that nothing now could join again. Even these, too, air the morning fled, and, though the charm still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone, gone like the thoughts that once were ours on summer days air youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain the songless Sappho gave in dying to the mournful sea, not mutur-slept beneath the wave, than this within my memory. At length one morning, as I lay in that half-waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last gave way to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed, as from a shrine of song and soul, the notes I sought, came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure o'er, each note and word, with every tone and look that lent at life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls when, mid the blast, they meet again, each widowed sound, through memory's realm, had winged in quest of its sweet mate, till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught, escape again, for never lark its matins new, so well as now I knew this strain. And oft when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. End of Poem The Daydream by Thomas More Read for LibriVox.org by Brian Van Vleet. They both were hushed, the voice, the chords, I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes and few the words my spellbound memory brought away, traces remembered here and there like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air that nothing now could join again. In these two are the morning fled, and though the charms still lingered on that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Unlike the thoughts that once were ours, on summer days their youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this druid air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. The song that Sappho gave in dying to the mournful sea, not mutur slept beneath the wave than this within my memory. I'd length one morning as I lay, in that half-waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last gave way to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed as from a shrine of song and soul the notes I sought came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure o'er, each note and word with every tone and look that lented life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls when mid the blast, they meet again, each widowed sound through memory's realm had winged in quest of its sweet mate till all were found. Nor even in waking did the glue, thus strangely caught to escape again, for never Larkett's mantons knew, so well as now I knew this strain. And oft when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daydream by Thomas Moore at PhilippeRvox.org by Derek Beaver, July 22nd, 2009. They both were hushed to the voice, the chords. I heard but once that witching lay and few the notes and few the words my spellbound memory brought away. Traces remembered here and there like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these two air the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that over each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Gone like the thoughts that once were ours on summer days, ere youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wild or kindred home. In vain the song that Sappho gave, and dying to the mournful sea, not mutur slept between the wave, than this within my memory. At length one morning as I lay in the half-waking mood, when dreams unwillingly at last give way to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed, as from a shrine of song and soul the notes I sought came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure over, each note and word with every tone and look that lint at life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls when, mid the bless, they meet again, each widowed sound through memory's realm had winged in quest of its sweet mate till all were found. Or even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught, escape again, for never lark its maiden's news so well as now I knew this strain. An oft-when-memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. The Daydream by Thomas Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Batinama They both were hushed, the voice, the chords. I heard but once that twitching lay, and few the notes, and few the words, my spellbound memory brought away. Traces remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these two, ere the morning, fled, and though the charms still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone, gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, on summer days, air youth had set. Thoughts right, we know, as summer flowers, though what they were, we now forget. In vain, with hints from other strains, I wooed this torrent air to come, as birds are towed on eastern plains, to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain, the song that subfor gave in dying to the mournful sea, not mutur slept beneath the wave, than this within my memory. At length, one morning, as I lay in that half-waking mood, when dreams unwillingly at last gave way to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which it breathed, as from a shrine of song and soul, the notes I sought, came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure o'er, each note and word, with every tone and look that lent it life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls, when, with the blessed they meet again, each widowed sound through memory's realm had weaned in quest of its sweet maid, till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught escape again, for never lark its matins new, so well as now I knew this strain. And oft, when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daydream by Thomas Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Jim Fish on the Texas Frontier on July 12th of 2009. They both for hushed the voice, the chords, I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes, and few the words. My spell-bound memory brought away, traces remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these two ere the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Like the thoughts that once for hours, on summer days, ere youth had set. Thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains, I would distruent air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain, the song that Sappho gave in dying to the mournful sea, no mutter slept beneath the wave, than this within my memory. At length one morning as I lay in that half-waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last gave way to the full truth of daylight's beams. A face the very face, me thought, from which had breathed as from a shrine of song and soul the notes I sought came with this music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure o'er each note and word with every tone and look and linen life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls when mid the bless they meet again each widowed sound, through memory's realm had winged in quest of this sweet mate till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue this strangely caught the escape again, for Neverlark it's maintenance new, so well as now I knew this strain. And often memory's wondrous spell is talked of in her tranquil bower. I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. This recording is in the public domain. That nothing now could join again. Even these, too, ere the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Gone like the thoughts that once were ours, on summer days ere youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains I woo'd this truant air to come, as birds are talked on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain the song that Sappho gave, in dying to the mournful sea, not mooters slept beneath the wave, then this within my memory. At length one morning as I lay, in that half-waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last gave way, to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed as from a shrine, of song and soul the notes I sought, came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure o'er, each note and word with every tone, and look that lent it life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls, when mid the blessed, they meet again, each widowed sound, through memory's realm had winged in quest, of its sweet mate, till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught, escape again, for never lark its matins new, so well as now I knew this strain. And oft, when memory's wondrous spell, is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell, the vision of that morning hour. The Daydream by Thomas Moore Read for the Brevox.org by Miriam Esther Goldman. They both were hushed, the voice, the chords, I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes and few the words my spellbound memory brought away. Traces remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these two air the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Gone like the thoughts that once were ours, on summer days air youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain the song that Sappho gave in dying to the mournful sea, not muter slept beneath the wave than this within my memory. At length one morning as I lay in that half-waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last give way to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face me thought from which had breathed, as from a shrine of song and soul the notes I sought came with its music close to mine, and sung the long-lost measure-orig note and word with every tone and look that lent it life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls when mid the blessed they meet again each widowed sound, through memory's realm had winged in quest of its sweet mate till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue thus strangely caught escape again, for never lark its matins knew so well as now I knew this strand, and off when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daydream by Thomas More, read for LibriVox.org by Secrets. They both were hushed, the voice, the chords. I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes and few the words, my spellbound memory, brought away. The memories remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these two ere the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that over each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Gone like the thoughts that once were ours. On summer nights ere youth had set, thoughts bright we know, as summer flowers, though what they were, we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains, I wooed this tyrant ere to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain, the song that Sappher gave, in dying to the mournful sea, not muta slept beneath the wave, than this within my memory. At length one morning, as I lay, in that half waking mood when dreams, unwillingly at last gave way, to the full truth of daylight's beams, a face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed, as from a shrine, of song and soul, the notes I sought, came with its music, close to mine, and sang the long-lost measure over, each note and word with every tone, and look that lent it life before, all perfect, all again, my own. Like parted souls when, mid the blast, they meet again each widowed sound, through memory's realm had winged in quest, of its sweet mate till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught, escape again, for never lark its matins new, so well as now I knew this strain. And oft when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil boa, I sing this lady's song and tell, the vision of that morning hour. The Daydream by Thomas Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's Newfound Land, Canada. They both were hushed, the voice, the chords, I heard but once that witching lay, and few the notes, and few the words. My spellbound memory brought away, traces remembered here and there, like echoes of some broken strain, links of a sweetness lost in air, that nothing now could join again. Even these, too, ere the morning fled, and though the charm still lingered on, that o'er each sense her song had shed, the song itself was faded, gone. Gone like the thoughts that once were ours on summer days ere youth had set, thoughts bright we know as summer flowers, though what they were we now forget. In vain with hints from other strains, I wooed this truant air to come, as birds are taught on eastern plains to lure their wilder kindred home. In vain the song that Sappho gave in dying to the mournful sea, not mutur slept beneath the wave, than this within my memory. At length, one morning, as I lay, in that half waking mood when dreams unwillingly at last gave way, to the full truth of daylight's beams. A face, the very face, me thought, from which had breathed thus from a shrine of song and soul the notes I sought, came with its music close to mine, and sung the long lost measure o'er each note and word with every tone, and look that lent it life before, all perfect, all again my own. Like parted souls, when mid the blessed they meet again each widowed sound through memory's realm had winged in quest of its sweet mate till all were found. Nor even in waking did the clue, thus strangely caught, escape again, for never lark its matins new so well as now I knew this strain. And oft when memory's wondrous spell is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song and tell the vision of that morning hour. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.