 Dedication by Olive Custance, read for LibreVox.org by Eva Davis. Dedication. Je croy pour que le jour où je ne serai plus. On sache comme l'air et le plaisir monte plus. Et comme mon livre porte à la foule future. Comme jamais la vie est le rose nature. Attention au travers des champs et des maisons. J'ai marqué chaque jeu la forme de ses ans. Parce que l'eau, la terre et la montante flamment. En nôles, un droit se sent si belle comme mon homme. J'ai dit ce que j'ai voué et ce que j'ai senti. D'un corps pour qui le vrai ne fait pas trop hardy. Et j'ai eu cet ordre par l'amour entier. Pour être après l'amour parfois encore âmé. Et que je nomme à l'eau lisant ce que je crie. S'entends pour moi son cœur et mou tu blés ce prix. Et en tout, tu oublies des épouses réelles. Mais accueil dans son homme et mes préfères à telle. Contestes-moi-tier de Noy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The End of Dreams by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. Sweet laughter, sweet delight. My heart is like a lighted inn that waits your swift approach. And at the open gates white beauty stands and listens like a flower. She has been dreaming of you in the night. Oh fairy princes and her eyes are bright. Hear your fleet horses, this is beauty's hour. Even is when a golden flame up curled quivers and flickers out in a dark place. So is it with a flame of beauty's face that torch, that rose, that wonder of the world. And love shall weep to see when he rides by years hence, the time shall seem as a bird's flight, a lonely inn beneath a winter sky. Come now, sweet friends, before the summer die. Sweet laughter, sweet delight. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Kingdom of Heaven by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. O world that holds me by the wings, how shall my soul escape your snares? So dear are your delightful things, so difficult your toils and cares. That every way my soul is held by bonds of love and bonds of hate, with all its heavenly ardour squeled, and all its angels desolate. But in the heart of every child, God in the world are reconciled. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Dream by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. A dream we walked together, you and I, along a white and lonely road, that went I know not where, and we were well content. Our laughter was untroubled as the sky, and all our talk was delicate and shy. Though in that cage of words wild thoughts were pent, like prison birds, that some sweet accident might yet release to sing again and fly. We passed between long lines of popular trees, where some are comrades gay and debonair, the south wind and the sunlight danced, you smiled, with great glad eyes, as bright as summer seas, to feel their twinkling fingers in your hair, and then you kissed me quickly, like a child. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Autumn Day by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. How delicately steps the Autumn Day, an azure cloak and gown of ashen grey, over the level country that I love, with glittering veils of light about her head, and skirts of wide horizons round her spread, white as the white wing feathers of a dove. Her feet, a flash of silver on the sea, chase silver sails that fly untiringly towards the enchanted islands of the west, beautiful islands, gardens of delight that flower at dawn with roses red and white, and flame at sunset golden amethyst. How delicately steps the Autumn Day, an azure cloak and gown of ashen grey, over the level country that I love, and how my heart, that all sweet things beguile, goes laughing with her for a little while, and then turns homework like a weary dove. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Angels by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. When life is difficult, I dream of how the angels dance in heaven, of how the angels dance and sing in gardens of eternal spring, because their sins have been forgiven, and nevermore for them shall be the terrors of mortality, when life is difficult, I dream of how the angels dance in heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Changeling by Olive Custance. Read for LibreVox.org by Nima. My father was a golden king, my mother was a shining queen. I heard the magic bluebird sing, they rapped me in a mantel green. They led their winged white horses out, we rode and rode till dawn was gray. We rode with many a song and shout over the hills and far away. They stole a crying human child and left me laughing by the fire, and that is why my heart is wild and all my life a long desire. The old enchantments hold me still, and sometimes an waking trance I seek again the fairy hill, the midnight feast, the glittering dance. The wizard harpers play for me, I wear a crown upon my head, a princess, an eternity, I dance and revel with the dead. Vain lies, I hear the people cry, I listen to their weary truth, then turn again to fantasy and the untroubled land of youth. I hear the laughter of the kings, I see their jeweled flagons gleam, a wine of life, immortal things, move in the splendor of my dream. My spirit is a homing dove, I drain a crystal cup and fall softly into the arms of love, and then the darkness covers all. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain, A Song Against Care, by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by Nima. O care, thou art a cloak too heavy to be borne, glittering with tears and gay with painted lies for seldom, seldom art thou stained in torn, showing a tattered lining, and the bare bruised body of thy wear, thou art fair to look at, o thou garment of our pride, a net of colors thou dost catch the wise. He lays aside his wisdom for thy sake, and beauty hides her loveliness in thee. And after, when men know the agony of thy great weight of splendor, Anne would shake thee swiftly from their shoulders, cast aside the burden of thy jeweled bands that break their very hearts. Often it is too late. They fear the world will mock them and deride when they are stripped of all their golden state. But some are brave, but some among us dare cry out against thy torment and be free. And I would rather a gay beggar be, and go in rags for all eternity, than that thy clinking pop should cover me. O care, and a poem, this recording, is in the public domain, Que coups à une enfance Très douce d'eux m'auries, by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by Nima. Alas, I do not know on what sad day my childhood went away. It may have left me softly in the night when I was sleeping, dreaming, who can tell? Perhaps it whispered, wings were made for flight. I only know it never said farewell. And so I cannot tell when youth will go, although I love it so, but like a little amorous girl that clings to some fair boy, my spirit all afraid, while yet she holds youth back by the bright wings, knows he must leave her for some other maid. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain, Candlelight by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by Nima. Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath, flickering points of honey-colored flame, from sunset gardens of the moon you came, pale flowers of passion, delicate flowers of death, blossoms of opal fire that raised on high upon a hundred silver stems are seen, above the brilliant dance are set between the brimming wine cups, flowers of revelry, roses with amber petals that arise out of the purple darkness of the night, to deck the darkened house of love, to light, the laughing lips, the beautiful glad eyes, lilies with violet-colored hearts that break and shining clusters around the silent dead, a diadem of stars at feet and head, the glory dazzles, but they do not wake. O golden flowers the moon goes gathering in magic gardens of her fairyland, while splendid angels of the sunset stand, watching and flaming circles wing to wing. Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath, that wither in the hands of light and die, when bright dawn awakens in a silver sky, pale flowers of passion, delicate flowers of death, end of poem, this recording is in the public domain, In the South by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. I was pale and sad in the south like the olive trees that drooped their silver heads by the dusty roads, and our grave in cold and gray in spite of the sun, and the veils of rose and blue that the bright dawn spun, day wrapped around me in vain. Long for the lovers and friends I had left behind, I longed for the north again. I was deaf to song, in even to beauty blind, blind to the magic wolf that summer weaves, while roses beat their pearl and ruby leaves against my windowpane, and orange flowers so passionately white, so richly perfumed, pined for my delight, only my faint heart sighed and pity when the glory waned and died for all that lovely life unsatisfied. I was pale and sad in the south like the olive trees that drooped their silver heads by the dusty roads. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain, Spring in the South by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. Beautiful is some rich embroidery, the valley lies in verdant amplitude, great mountains like old merchants or a brood, and as a lovely woman languidly, trailing her long blue robes, so comes the sea to touch it softly in a wistful mood. The sky forgets her starry multitude, seeing how fair mere earthly flowers can be. Glad country, where the wayward feet of spring, moving in mystic dances, bring desire, new miracles of beauty every day, where love and sweet delight fly wing to wing, forgetful as in dreams the bright is fire, so burn the hours of joy as swift away. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain, I am weary, let me sleep by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. I am weary, let me sleep in some great embroidered bed with soft pillows for my head. I am weary, let me sleep. Petals of sweet roses shed all around of perfumed heap, white as pearls in ruby red. Curtains closely drawn to keep wings of darkness or me spread. I am weary, let me sleep in some great embroidered bed. Let me dream that I am dead, never more to wake and weep in the future that I dread, for the ways of life are steep. I am weary, let me sleep. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Grief by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. I, that was once so eager for the light, the vehement pomp and passion of the day, and tired at last and glad to steal away across the dusky borders of the night. The purple darkness now is my delight, and with great stars my lonely sorrows play, as still some proud and tragic princess may, with diamonds make her desolation bright. Night has become a temple for my tears. The moon, a silver shroud for my despair, and all the golden forests of the spheres have showered their splendors on me leaf by leaf, till men that meet me in the sunlight stare to see the shining garment of my grief. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Daffodil Dawn by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. While I slept and dreamed of you, morning like a princess came, all in robe of palest blue, stooped and gathered in that hour from the east of golden flower, great and shining flower of flame. Then she hastened on her way, singing over plain in hill. While I slept and dreamed of you, dreams that never can come true, morning at the gates of day gathered Dawn the Daffodil. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Beauty by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. I saw the face of beauty, a pale rose in the gold dusk of her abundant hair, a silken web of dreams and joys, a snare, a net of pleasures and a world of woes, a bright temptation for gay youth that goes, laughing upon his way without a care, a shield of light for conquering love to bear stronger than all the swords of all his foes. No face of beauty, O white Dawn enshrined, and sunrise veils of splendid hair, O star, shine on those weary men who sadly wise, but guess thy glory faintly from afar, missing the marvel of thy smile and blind to the imperial passion in thine eyes. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Vision by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. I come from lonely downs in silent woods with winter in my heart, a withered world, a heavy weight of dark and sorrowful things, and all my dreams spread out their rainbow wings and turn again to those bright solitudes where beauty met me in a thousand moods, and all her shining banners were unfurled. And where I snatched from the sweet hands of spring a crystal cup and drank a mystic wine, and walked alone a secret perfumed way, and saw the glittering angels at their play, and heard the golden birds of heaven sing, and woke to find white lilies clustering, and all the emerald wood an empty shrine, fragrant with myrrh and frankincense and spice, and echoing yet the flutes of paradise. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Dance by Olive Custons, red for Librevox.org by Nemo. Do you remember that day I danced in the woods under the dancing leaves? Do you remember the delicate blue of the sky, and the gold dust in the air, and the tawny harvest fields, and the heavy sheaves? Summer was surely in one of her bravest moods, and oh the rare swift joy that lifted life to an ecstasy, that shining day I danced for you, dear in the woods. The purple twilight came, and the amber moon, and the fairies danced with me, and the shy fawns crept from the tangled thicket near, and the startled dryettes bent, white and starry eyed, each from her secret tree, to watch that mystical dance to share that heavenly swoon, that mad bright banishment. For we were free in the perfect country, dear, when purple twilight came, and the amber moon. Someday I shall dance again that mystical dance. I know not when or where, but the angels shall dance with me, and I shall not be afraid. I shall look in their deep eyes, and feel their arms about me, and their kisses in my hair, and know that time is over, and the desperate ways of chance. I shall be very wise, and glad at last, and the walls of the world shall fade, the day when I dance again that mystical dance. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Prisoner of God by Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org by Nima. Once long and long ago I knew delight. God gave my spirit wings and a glad voice. I was a bird that sang at dawn and noon, that sang at starry evening time and night, sang at the sun's great golden doors, and furl'd brave wings in the white gardens of the moon, that sang and soared beyond the dusty world. Once long and long ago I did rejoice, but now I am a stone that falls in falls, a prisoner cursing the blank prison walls, helpless and dumb, with desperate eyes that see the terrible beauty of those simple things, my soul disdained when she was proud and free. And I can only pray, God pity me. God pity me and give me back my voice. God pity me and give me back my wings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Storm by Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org by Nima. What do they hunt tonight, the hounds of the wind? I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart. I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or sinned. I only remember the hours when I stood apart, lonely and tired, in difficult dreams and tranced. And I forget the days when I loved and laughed and danced. Gray hounds of the wind, I hear your wistful cry, the cry of unsatisfied hearts hungry for happiness. The house is full of whispering ghosts as you hurry by, and my soul is heavy and dark with a great distress. For heaven is far away, and hope is dead, and the night is a tomb of tears and despair and dread. Oh, hunt no more wild hounds of the wind and rain, for my soul is afraid of the sound of your hurrying feet. And surely, under the stars a beautiful joy is slain. Fly, black wings of sorrow, wet wings of the night that beat at the shuttered wind to swiftly fly away before God stoops to gather the golden flower of day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Saint Anthony by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. The Engraving by Durer. Durer has drawn him resting by the way. Has he returned from some far pilgrimage, or just come out into the light of day from a dark hermit cell we cannot know? With stooping shoulders and with head bent low over his book and pointed hood drawn down, his eager eyes devour the printed page, regardless of the little lovely town rising behind him with its clustered towers. Oh, saint, look up and see how gay and fair the earth is in its summertime of flowers. Look up and see the world, for God is there. Old, dreaming saint, how many are like you, intent upon the dusty book of fate. Slow to discern the false things from the true, yet weary of world clamor and world hate, and hungering for eternal certainties, not knowing how close about them heaven lies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Black Butterflies by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Oh, words of all my songs, Black Butterflies, wild words of all the wayward songs I sing, called from the tomb of some enchanted past by that strange sphinx my soul, they slowly rise and settle on white pages wing to wing. White pages, like flower petals fluttering, held spellbound there till some blind hour shall bring the perfect voice that, delicate and wise, shall set them free in fairyland at last. That garden of all dreams and ecstasies where my soul sings through an eternal spring, watching alone with enigmatic eyes, dark wings and pale flower petals quivering. Oh, words of all my songs, Black Butterflies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Praise of Youth by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Oh, delicate youth, thy praises shall be sung while yet my heart is young. While life and I, in search of lovely things, go out with dancing feet and dreaming eyes and find wild folly with a rainbow wings, sweeter than all the wisdom of the wise. Oh, delicate youth, thy praises shall be sung while yet my heart is young. Thy whiteness and thy brightness and the sweet flushed softness of thy little restless feet, the tossed and sunny tangle of thy hair, thy swiftness, slimness, shyness, simpleness that set the old folk sighing for the rare red rows of joy thy careless staves possess. And when at last with sad and different face I walk in narrow pathways patiently, forgetful of thy beauty and thy truth, thy ringing laughter, thy rebellious grace, when fair love turns his face away for me, then let me die, oh, delicate, sweet youth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Opal Song by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Shy and wild, shy and wild, to my lovers I have been, frank and wayward as a child, strange and secret as a queen, feign of love and love beguiled, yet afraid of love I wean. False and true, false and true, is the woman's heart in me, fair lost faces that I rue, golden friends I laugh to see, changing I come back to you, never doubt my loyalty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gifts by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Come near, you are my friend and I will wear, gems for your sake and flowers in my hair, garments of silver gauze and cloth of gold, and I will give you power to have and hold and passion and the light and ecstasy. What will you give to me? And I will give you, if you will but stay, the magic mirror of the dawn, where day waking beholds the wonder of her face, if you will keep me yet in your embrace, and let me dream of love's eternity. What will you give to me? Yes, I will give you the gold veils of light and the dark spangled curtains of the night, and I will give you, as a flower unfurled, the proud and marvelous beauty of the world and all the wild white horses of the sea. What will you give to me? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Primrose Hill by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Wild heart in me that frets and grieves, imprisoned here against your will. Sad heart that dreams of rainbow wings, see I have found some golden things. The poplar trees on Primrose Hill, with all their shining play of leaves, and London like a silver bride that will not put her veil aside. Proud London, like a painted queen whose crown is heavy on her head, city of sorrow and desire under a sky of opal fire, amber and amethyst in red. And how divine the day has been for every dawn God builds again this world of beauty and of pain. Wild heart that hungers for delight, imprisoned here against your will. Sad heart, so eager to be gay, loving earth's lovely things, the play of wind and leaves on Primrose Hill. Or London, dreaming of the night, adventurous heart and beauty bent, that only heaven could quite content. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. A Morning Song by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. You saw my window open wide and woke me early, Sister Day. You came in all your lovely pride with laughing looks that I adore, with the wings of blue and gray, with sunshine skirts that swept the floor, with songs to drive night's dreams away you called me out to play. And so I took you by the hand and found the way to Fairyland. With such impatient feet I climbed the ladders of delight, for while I know that ruthless time turns morning moods to tears and night. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. The Wings of Fortune by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Fair fortune you are wild and coy, fickle, mysterious and shy. And so we lost you, love and I. And now at last, because we find your golden footprints, love the boy, dreams you are near, but love is blind. Yet surely sorrow's arms unwind from this tired heart and dark distress fade softly, softly from the world. And in hope's silver sky unfurled I see the banners of delight and the gray heaven of life grows bright with a red dawn of happiness. As with a laughing look, love flings his heavy crown of thorns away. Fair fortune you are wild and coy, and I fear you will not stay. But love has caught you by the wings and radiant as your riddicy. By her brave poet songs set free I rush into the arms of joy. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. Shadow Nets by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. When I was wandering on the Downs today, I saw the pine woods sleeping in the sun. For they were tired of weaving shadow nets. Weaving all day in vain, in vain, in vain. Pale phantom nets to snare the golden sun. And then I thought of how the poets weave with shadowy words their cunning nets of song, hoping to catch at last a shining dream. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. Peacocks, a Mood by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. And gorgeous plumage, azure, golden green. They trample the pale flowers, and their shrill cry troubles the garden's bright tranquility. Proud birds of beauty, splendid and serene. Spreading their brilliant fans, screen after screen of burnished sapphire. Gemmed with mimic suns, strange magic eyes that, so the legend runs, will bring misfortune to this fair domain. And my gay youth, that vain and debonair, sits in the sunshine, tired at last of play. A child that finds the morning all too long, tempts with its beauty that disastrous day, when, in the gathering darkness of despair, death shall strike dumb the laughing mouth of song. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. High as Synthes by Olive Custons. Red for LibriVox.org by Nima. Fair boy, how gay the morning must have seemed, before the fatal game that murdered thee. Of such a dawn my wistful heart has dreamed. Surely, I too have lived in Arcady, when spring, lap full of roses, ran to meet, white Aphrodite risen from the sea. For chance I saw thee, then, so glad in fleet, hastened to greet Apollo, stooped to bind, the gold-and-jeweled sandals on his feet. While he so radiant, so divinely kind, lured thee with honeyed words to be his friend, all heedless of thy fate, for love is blind. For love is blind and cruel, and the end of every joy is sorrow and distress, and when immortal creatures lightly bend, to kiss the lips of simple loveliness. Swords are unsheathed in silence, and clouds rise, some goddess jealous of the mute caress. But who shall mourn thy death? Ah, not the wise, better to perish on thy happiest hour, to close in sight of beauty thy dark eyes, and, dying so, be changed into a flower. Then that, the stealthy and relentless years, should steal the grace which was thy only dour, and bring thee in return dull cares and tears, and difficult days and sickness and despair. O, not for thee the griefs and sordid fears, that, like a burden, trembling age must bear, slain in thy youth by the sweet hands of love, thou shalt remain forever young and fair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Highlass by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. Dark boy, how radiantly you went to meet your mystic doom, what colors in the sky. As though that cup of beauty the gods hold, brimmed over on a world in ecstasy. What silver flutes charmed all the forest ways. How the green shimmered, jeweled thick with flowers, and how the sun was like a globe of gold. Yet you but thought to chase the perfect flowers. Down that white road of wonder and delight, the highway of your dreams and heedlessly, you crushed the violets with your slim brown feet, and whistled low and sang a careless song. Because your life was full of lovely days, because your life was delicate and sweet. O youth and dawn, you dreamed not of the night, o life and laughter, but the night is long. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Blue Flowers by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. I go to gather in the woods for you the wild flowers that are blue. Pedals to match the color of your eyes. None but blue blossoms will I take, yet see how sweetly tempting me the fruit trees swing their scented treasuries, and how the butter-cups and daisies dance to meet my dazzled glance. A gold and silver, sweet, are not to you. And so let others rob God's gardens, shake the stars down for your sake. I bring you but the wild flowers that are blue. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Magical by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. Rare garden where my heart goes gathering many a lovely and delightful thing, pale roses of your body and the fair, unrivaled yellow blossoms of your hair. Tall lilies of your gay and careless grace, and o the wistful flower of your face, and all the soft and starry mysteries of those divine forget-me-nots your eyes. O come, fair love, before the flowers fade and bless this garden that the gods have made. Rare garden where my heart goes gathering many a lovely and delightful thing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Endimian by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. Your hair was like a honey-colored flame seen through a veil of silver when you came and took me in your arms that winter night. The moonlight, amorous of your golden hair, toyed with it softly as a woman might with some bright treasure, delicate and rare. O young Endimian, risen from the dead, born once again to beauty, O bright head, the moon stoops low to kiss you as of old, stoops graciously from a great throne of pearl, with outstretched arms mysterious and cold, but you have left her for a mortal girl. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dance on by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. O hide your passion from the moon. When young and slender she appears and shining gown in silver shewn and all her path with stars and pearl, she dances round the darkened world. O hide your sorrows from the sun, the sun should never see your tears. Weep, if you will, when day is done, a laugh and singing clap your hands while yet the sun in heaven stands. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Memory by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. O how I loved you when we met at one moment of the day. Yes, loved you desperately and yet could scarcely find a word to say. No wonder that you looked and smiled as though upon some timid child. You never guessed, how could you guess that I adored your loveliness? You never saw the prison soul behind the windows of my eyes frantic to break from fate's control and charm you with her flatteries and show you your cold heart to move the shining treasure of her love and worship in a long embrace the reckless beauty of your face. You never knew and the dream died a broken rose beneath your feet. You went to your way, the world is wide and not for youth is sweet. Yet when at night I lie awake my heart is sad for a dream's sake and I remember and regret how I loved you when we met. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Photograph by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. What is this, a shadow of your face? Where is the wildflower grace that love is wont to kiss? Where is the bird that brings to your untroubled eyes the blue of fairy skies the flash of fairy wings? A wild bird of delight that no white hand may hold or fair as cage of gold for who would stay its flight? The songbird of your voice whose magic song love hears trembling behind your tears trilling when you rejoice. Oh beauty, what is this, the shadow of a rose a little ghost that goes oblivious of love's kiss? Only a shadow, yet it may in some dark hour recall the living flower. If happily, love forget. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Saint Sebastian by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. So beautiful in all thine agony so radiant in thine infinite despair. Oh, delicate mouth, brave eyes and curled bright hair. Oh, lovely body lashed the rough tree. What brutal fools were those that gave to thee red roses of thine outraged blood to wear? Laughed at thy bitter pain and loathe the fair bruised flower of thy victorious purity. Marvelous beauty, target of the world how all loves arrow seek thy joy. Oh, sweet and wound the white perfection of thy youth. How all the poisoned spears of hater hurl against thy sorrow when thou dares to meet with martyrdom men's mockery of the truth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Magic Mirrors by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by Neema. Dedicated to Helen proof listener extraordinaire. In the dim mirrors of imagination I watch the silent dancing of my soul. I watch her as she dances with my dreams. See how she takes innumerable disguises and hides her beauty behind many masks and how sometimes she seems to laugh and sing and weep and call upon the unknown gods. But not one mirror has betrayed her voice or shown to me the secret of her face. Oh, silent dance of sorrow and delight my heart growing tired with watching turns away to make perhaps a little passionate song out of the shadows of the mortal things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of The Inn of Dreams by Olive Custins.