 Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me. And yet I swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have been rather uncivil. It is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give it's alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by Eswa, in Belgium, in April 2008. Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me. And yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil, which is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by J. C. Guan, Montreal, April 2008. Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me. And yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil, which is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me. And yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil, which is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by Mark Smith. Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me, and yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil, which is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by Sergio Baldelli in Rome, April 2008. Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me, and yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil, which is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her sense is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was that provoking charm of Celia altogether. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Je ne sais quoi, by William Whitehead, read for LibreVox.org by Sergio Baldelli Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, and Celia has undone me, and yet I'll swear I can't tell how the pleasing plague stole on me, which is not her face that love creates, for there no grace is revel, which is not her shape, for there the fates have rather been uncivil. It is not her air, for sure in that there's nothing more than common, and all her senses is only chat, like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, it was both perhaps or neither. In short, it was the provoking charm of Celia altogether. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org.