 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org, Recording by Linda Cantoni The curfew tolls the nail of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the The plowman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the site, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that from yonder ivy mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain, Of such as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary rain. Beneath those rugged elms that yew trees shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cocks shrill clarion or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care. No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn gleeb has broke. How jokund did they drive their team afield, How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure, Nor grandeur here with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pump of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth air gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you ye proud impute to these the fault, If memory or their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The peeling anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living liar. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time did nare unroll, Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear, Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampton that with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute and glorious Milton here may rest, Some cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty or a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone, Their growing virtues but their crimes confined, Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the muses' flame. Far from the madding crowds' ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray, Along the cool sequestered veil of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their ears, Spelled by the unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she-strews That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb forgetfulness appray, This pleasing anxious being air-resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their won'ted fires. For thee, who mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Happily some hoary-headed swain may say. Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beach, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pour upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, Like one forlorn, or crazed with care, Or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree. Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him born, Approach and read for thou canst read the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. The epitaph He rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty and his soul sincere. Heaven did a recompense as largely send. He gave to misery all he had, a tear. He gained from heaven, it was all he wished, a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose, The bosom of his father and his God. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Cantoni. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. To a waterfowl By William C. Bright, From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox by Brian Thomasetting. Wither amidst the falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, Dost thou pursue, Thy solitary way? Vanely the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As darkly painted on the crimson sky Thy figure floats along. Seekest thou the plashy brink Of witty lake or marge of river wide, Or whether rocking brillos rise and sink On the shaped ocean side. There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Loan wandering but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near, And soon that toil shall end. Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows, Read shall bend, soon or thy sheltered nest. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Brown Thrush by Lucy Larkholm From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Red for Libervox, Recording by Brian Thomasetti There's a merry Brown Thrush sitting up in the tree. He's singing to me. He's singing to me. And what does he say? Little girl, little boy, Oh, the world running over with joy. Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look, in my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be. And the Brown Thrush keeps singing, A nest do you see? And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree. Don't meddle. Don't touch, little girl, little boy, For the world will lose some of its joy. Now I'm glad. Now I'm free. And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Blue Jay by Susan Hartley Sweat From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Red for Libervox, by Brian Thomasetti Oh, Blue Jay up in the maple tree, Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee. How did you happen to be so blue? Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest? And fasten blue violets into your vest? Tell me, I pray you, tell me true. Did you dip your wings in azure dye When April began to paint the sky That was pale with the winter stay? Or were you hatched from the blue bell brightneath the warm gold breast of sunbeam light By the river one blue spring day? Oh, Blue Jay up in the maple tree, A tossing your saucy head at me, With never a word for my questioning, Pray, cease for a moment your tinkle ink. And here when I tell you what I think, You bonyest bit of the spring. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain, Recorded by Brian Thomasetti The Blue Bird by Emily H. Miller From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Red for Libervox, Recording by John Rashton I know the song that the Blue Bird is singing, Out in the apple tree, where he is swinging, Brave little fellow, the skies may be dreary, Nothing cares, while his heart is so cheery. Hark! How the music leaps from his throat! Hark! Was there ever so merry a note? Listen a while, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying, Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know. Hark! While I sing you a message of cheer, Summer is coming, and springtime is here. Little white snow drops, I pray you arise, Bright yellow crocus, come open your eyes, Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold. Daffodils, daffodils, say, Do you hear? Summer is coming, and springtime is here. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Nightingale and the Glover by William Cowper From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Read for Libra Fox. Recording by John Rushton A Nightingale that all day long had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at Eve his note suspended, Nor yet when even tide was ended, Began to feel as well he might, The keen demands of appetite, When, looking eagly around, He spied far off upon the ground, As something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark. So stooping down from Hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Heranged him thus, quite eloquent. Did you admire my lamp-quathy, As much as I your minstrel see? You were a bore to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song, For twas the self-same power divine, Taught you to sing and me to shine, That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night? The songster heard his short oration, And, wobbling out his approbation, Released him as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Lark and the Rook by Anonymous From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Read for Libra Fox. Recording by John Rushton. Good night, Sir Rook, said a little lark, The daylight fades, it'll soon be dark. I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray, I've sung my hymn to the parting day, So now I haste to my quiet nook In yon dewey meadow. Good night, Sir Rook. Good night, poor Lark, said his titled friend, With a haughty toss and a distant bend, I also go to my rest profound, But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground. The fittest place for a bird like me Is the topmost bow of yon tall pine-tree. I opened my eyes at peep of day, And saw you taking your upward way, Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, And ugly speck in the sun's bright beams, Soaring too high to be seen or heard, And I said to myself, What a foolish bird. I trod the park with a princely air, I filled my crop with the richest fair, I called or day mid a lordly crew, And I made more noise in the world than you. The sun shone forth on my ebon wing, I looked and wondered. Good night, poor Thing. Good night, once more, said the lark's sweet voice, I see no cause to repent my choice. You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine? You make more noise in the world than I, But who is the sweeter minstrel sea? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the ground, and the far off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round, Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new moan hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch, Twice or thrice is round delay, Twice or thrice is round delay, Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountainside or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bobble link, bobble link, spink, spank, spink. Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat. White are his shoulders, And white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note, Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's quaker wife, Pretty and quiet with plain brown wings. Passing at home at patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. Brood, kind creature, you need not fear, Thieves and robbers while I'm here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of Braggarts is he, Pouring both from his little throat. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. Never was I afraid of man. Catch me cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight. There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food. Robert of Lincoln besters him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made, Sober with work and silent with care. Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes, the children are grown, Fun and frolic no more he knows. Robert of Lincoln's a hum drum drone, Off he flies and we sing as he goes. Bobble link, bobble link, Spink, spank, spink. When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln come back again. Chee, chee, chee. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To the Lady Bird by Mrs. Selvie from the junior classics volume 10 part 2. Homes old and new, read for Liebervox. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, BC. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home. The field mouse has gone to her nest. The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, and the bees and the birds are at breast. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home. The glowworm is lighting her lamp. The doos falling fast and your fine speckled wings will flag with the close clinging damp. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home. Good luck if you reach it at last. The owls come abroad and the bats on the roam, sharp set from their rams and fast. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home. The fairy bells tinkle afar. Make haste or they'll catch you and harness you fast with a cobweb to Albarone's car. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home to your house in the old willow tree, where your children so dear have invited the ant and a few cozy neighbors to tea. Lady Bird, Lady Bird fly away home, and if not gobbled up by the way, nor yoked by the fairies to Albarone's car, you're in luck, and that's all I have to say. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Grasshopper and Cricket by Leigh Hunt from the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2. Palms Old and New. Red for LibriVox. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Green Little Valter in The Sunny Grass. Catching your heart up at the feel of June. Soul voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, when even the bees leg at the summoning brass. And you, warm little housekeeper, who class, with those who think the candles come too soon. Loving the fire and with your tricksome tune, nick the glad silent moments as they pass. Oh, sweet and tiny cousins that belong, one to the fields, the other to the hearth. Both have your sunshine, both though small are strong. Add your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth. To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, indoors a note, summer and winter, mirth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Ant and the Cricket by Anonymous. From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2. Palms of Old and New. Red for LibriVox. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. A silly young cricket accustomed to sing, through the warm sunny months of gay summer and spring, began to complain when he found that at home his cupboard was empty and winter was come, not a crumb to be found on the snow-covered ground, not a flower could he see, not a leaf on a tree. Oh, what will become, says the cricket of me. At last by starvation and famine made bold, all dripping with wet, and all trembling with cold, away he set off to a miserly ant to see if, to keep him alive, he would grant. Him shelter from rain, a mow full of grain, he wish only to borrow, he repay it to-morrow. If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow. Says the ant to the cricket, I'm your servant and friend, but we ants never borrow, we ants never lend. But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by? When the weather was warm, said the cricket, not I. My heart is so light, that I sang day and night, for all nature look gay. You sang, sir, you say? Go then, said the ant, and dance winter away. Thus ending his hastily lifted the wicket, and out of the door turned the poor little cricket. Though this is a fable, the moral is good. If you live without work, you must live without food. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Housekeeper by Charles Lamb From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, carries his house with him where air he goes. Peeps out, and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to a small domicile again. Touch but a tip of him, a horn, tis well, He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant, stay. Long as he will, he dreads no quarter day. Himself he boards and lodges, both invites, And feasts himself, sleeps with himself, Onights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure, Chattels himself is his own furniture, And his soul riches, where so air he roam, Knock when you will, he's sure to be at home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song by Alfred Tennyson From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth, With the mellow preludes, we are free. The streams through many a lily-row Down caroling to the crisp sea, Low tinkled with a bell-light flow, Between the blossoms, we are free. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Grasshopper and the Cricket By John Keats, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The poetry of earth is never dead, When all the birds are faint, With the hot sun, and hide in cooling trees, A voice will run, From hedge to hedge, about the new moan mead, That is the Grasshoppers, he takes the lead. In summer luxury, he has never done, With his delights, for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never. On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence from the stove their shrills, The cricket song in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshoppers among some grassy hills. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Keeping store by Mary F. Butts, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. We have bags and bags of whitest down, Out of the milkweed pods, We have purple asters in lovely heaps, And stacks of golden rods. We have needles out of the sweet pine woods, And spools of cobweb thread. We have bachelor's buttons for Dolly's dress, And hollycock caps for her head. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Kitten and Falling Leaves By William Wordsworth, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves one, two, and three, From the lofty elder tree, Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Edding round and round they sink, Softly slowly one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed, Self or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute, But the Kitten, how she starts, Croaches, stretches, Paws and darts, first at one, and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow, There are many now, now one, Now they stop, and there are none. What intensiveness of desire, In her upward eye of fire, With a tiger leap halfway, Now she meets the coming prey, Let it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again, Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer, Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What the wind brings back, By Edmund C. Stetman, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for Leap of Ocs, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Which is the wind that brings the cold, The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow, And the sheep will scamper into the fold, When the north wind begins to blow, Which is the wind that brings the heat, The south wind, Katie, and corn will grow, And peaches redden for you to eat, When the south begins to blow, Which is the wind that brings the rain, The east wind, Artie, and farmers know, The cows come shivering up the lane, When the east begins to blow, Which is the wind that brings the flowers, The west wind, Bessie, and soft and low, The birdies sing in the summer hours, When the west begins to blow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wind by Robert L. Stevenson, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for Leap of Ocs, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. I saw you toss the kites on high, And blow the birds up out the sky, And all around I heard you pass, Like lady's skirts across the grass, A wind a-blowing all day long, A wind that sings so loud a song. I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all, A wind a-blowing all day long, A wind that sings so loud a song. O you that are so strong and cold, O blower are you, young or old, Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind a-blowing all day long, A wind that sings so loud a song. End of poem. Who has Seen the Wind by Christina G. Rosetti, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for Leap of Ocs, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Who has Seen the Wind, Neither I nor you, But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through. Who has Seen the Wind, Neither you nor I, But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by. End of poem. Wind Song by Nora Hopper, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for Leap of Ocs, Blow, blow, winds blow, Breggart winds and Mary, Blow down the almond snow, Toss the flowering cherry, Daffodils will blow, Arrow, mingle in their dances, Shake the purple flags that grow Tall, amid their lances, Blow, O winds blow, Strip the winter berry, Far in ear, push and peer, Here's a nest agroing, Winds marry, winds dear, Hush, hear your blowing, Trouble not the mother wren When she comes and goes, Dreaming of the wings and songs That her secret knows, Soft hear, winds dear, Where the nests are showing, Blow, blow, loud and low, Wild winds and marry, Hurtling down upon our heads, Bring a snow of cherry, Bring the yellow king cups out In the flowerless places, Set the naked woods aflush With the wind flowers' faces, Make the old briar run With sap ready for the berry, Bring the swallows, April follows, Wild winds and marry. Into poem this recording is in the public domain. Winty Nights by Robert L. Stevenson, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about? Into poem this recording is in the public domain. The Wind and the Moon by George MacDonald, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By on the highway low and loud, By at the gallop goes he, By at the gallop he goes and then, By he comes back at the gallop again. Into poem this recording is in the public domain. Slaysong by G. W. Petty, From the junior classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Set the wind to the moon, I will blow you out, You stare in the air, As if crying beware. Always looking what I am about, I hate to be watched, I will blow you out. The wind blew hard and out went the moon, So deep on a heap of clouds to sleep. Down lay the wind and slumbered soon, Buttering low, I've done for that moon. He turned in his bed, She was there again, On high in the sky, With her one ghost eye. The moon shone white and alive and plain, Said the wind, I will blow you out again. The wind blew hard and the moon grew slim, With my sledge and my wedge, I have knocked off her edge. I will blow, said the wind, Right fierce and grim, And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim. He blew and he blew, And she thinned to a thread, When puffed more's enough To blow her to snuff, When good puffed more, Where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer glum Will go that thread. He blew a great blast, And the thread was gone. In the air, nowhere, Was a moon being bare, Larger and nearer the shy stars shone, Sure and certain the moon was gone. The wind he took to his revels once more, On down and in town a merry mad clown. He leaped and hollowed with whistle and roar, When there was that glimmering thread once more. He flew into a rage, He danced and blew, But in vain was the pain Of his bursting brain. For still the moon's scrap, The broader grew, The more that he swelled His big cheeks and blew. Slowly she grew till she filled the night, And shone on her throne in the sky alone. A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely the queen of the night, Said the wind, what a marvel of power am I? With my breath in good faith I blew her to death. First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in, what a strength am I? But the moon she knew not Of the silly affair, For high in the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless miles above the air, She never had heard the great wind blare. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Come, Little Leaves, by George Cooper, From the junior classics, volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for Leap-a-Vox. Come, Little Leaves, said the wind one day, Come over the meadows with me and play, Put on your dresses of red and gold, For summer is gone and the days grow cold. Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call, Down they came fluttering, one and all. Over the brown fields they danced and flew, Singing the sweet little song they knew. Cricket, goodbye, we've been friends so long. Little Brooke, sing us your farewell song. Say you are sorry to see us go, Ah, you will miss us. Right, well, we know. Dear little lambs in your fleecy fold, Mother will keep you from harm and cold. Fawnly we watched you in veil and glade, Say, will you dream of our loving shade. Dancing and whirling the Little Leaves went, Winter had called them, and they were content. Soon, fast asleep, in their earthy beds, The snow laid a cover lid over their heads. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Seven times one by Gene Inglow. From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2. Poems Old and New, Red for Leap-a-Vox. There's no de-left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven. I've said my seven times over and over. Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old I can write a letter. My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always. They know no better. They are only one times one. Oh moon, in the night I have seen you sailing, And shining so round and low. You were bright, ah bright, But your light is failing. You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven. And shine again in your place. Oh velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow. You've powdered your legs with gold. Oh brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold. Oh Columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtledoves dwell. Oh cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper, That hangs in your clear green bell. And show me your nest with the young ones in it. I will not steal them away. I am old, you may trust me. Linit, linit, I am seven times one today. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Picture of Minionette by H. C. Bunner From the junior classics, volume 10, Part 2, Palms Old and New, Read for LibriVox. A Picture of Minionette in a tenement's highest casement, Queer sort of flower pot, yet that Picture of Minionette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement, The Picture of Minionette in the tenement's highest casement. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Signs of Rain by Dr. Edward Jenner From the junior classics, volume 10, Part 2, Palms Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Forty reasons for not accepting an invitation of a friend, To make an excursion with him. One, the hollow winds begin to blow. Two, the clouds look black, the glass is low. Three, the soot falls down, the spaniel sleep. Four, and spiders from their cobwebs peep. Five, last night the sun went pale to bed. Six, the moon in Halo's head, her head. Seven, the boating shepherd heaves a sigh. Eight, foresee a rainbow spans the sky. Nine, the walls are damp, the ditches smell. Ten, closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. Eleven, hark how the chairs and tables crack. Twelve, O Betty's nerves are on the rack. Thirteen, loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry. Fourteen, the distant hills are seeming nigh. Fifteen, how restless are the snorting swine. Sixteen, the busy flies disturb the kind. Seventeen, low o'er the grass the swallow wings. Eighteen, the cricket too, how sharp he sings. Nineteen, puss on the hearth with velvet paws. Twenty, sits waping o'er her whiskered jaws. Twenty-one, through the clear streams the fishes rise. Twenty-two, and nimbly catch the incautious flies. Twenty-three, the glowworms numerous and light. Twenty-four, elune the dewy dell last night. Twenty-five, a dust the squalid toad was seen. Twenty-six, hopping and crawling o'er the green. Twenty-seven, the whirling dust, the wind obeys. Twenty-eight, and in the rapid eddy plays. Twenty-nine, the frock has changed his yellow vest. Thirty, and in a russet coat is dressed. Thirty-one, through June the air is cold and still. Thirty-two, the mellow blackbird's voice is shrill. Thirty-three, my dog so altered in his taste. Thirty-four, quits mutton bones on grass to feast. Thirty-five, and see yon rooks how odd their flight. Thirty-six, they imitate the gliding kite. Thirty-seven, and seem precipitate to fall. Thirty-eight, as if they felt the piercing ball. Thirty-nine, twill surely rain I see with sorrow. Forty, our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A boy's song by James Hogg, from the junior classics, volume 10, part two, Poems Old and New, read for LibriVox. Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the moors mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to trace the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazelbank is deepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away, Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell. But this I know I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay, Up the water and o'er the lee, That's the way for Billy and me. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Farm Yard Song by J. T. Trowbridge, From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Over the hill the farm boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hen, In the poplar tree above the spring, The katydid begins to sing, The early dews are falling, Into the stone heap darts the mink, The swallow skim the rivers brink, And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm boy goes, Cheerily calling, co-boss, co-boss, co-co, co-co, Farther farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, Co-boss, co-boss, co-co, Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart at the close of day, Harness and chain are hung away, In the wagon shed stand yoke and plow, The straws in the stack, The haze in the mow, The cooling dews are falling, The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The winninging mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling, co-boss, co-boss, co-co, co-co, While still the cowboy far away Go seeking those that have gone astray, Co-boss, co-boss, co-co, Now to her task the milkmaid goes, The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great, About the trough by the farmyard pump, The frolic sum yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling, The new milk heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, And the white stream into the bright pale flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, So, boss, so, boss, so, so, so, The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, so, so, boss, so, so, To supper at last the farmer goes, The apples are paired, the paper red, The stories are told, then all to bed, Without the crickets cease the song, Make shrill the silence all night long, The heavy dews are falling, The housewife's hand has turned the lock, Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock, The household sinks to deep repose, But still in sleep the farm boy goes, Singing, calling, Co, boss, co, boss, co, co, co, And off the milkmaid in her dreams, Drums in the pale with the flashing streams, Murrowing, so, boss, so, and a poem, This recording is in the public domain. The Milkmaid, by Jeffries Taylor, From the Junior Classics, volume 10, part 2, Poems Old and New, read for LibriVox, A milkmaid who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said, Let me see, I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or four score, to be sure. Well, then, stop a bit, it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten, But if twenty-four accident should be detached, It will need me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched. Well, sixty sound eggs, no sound chickens, I mean. Of these some may die, well, suppose seventeen. Seventeen, not so many, say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast, But then there's their barley, how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, So that's a mere trifle, now then, let us see, At a fair market price, how much money they'll be? Six shillings a pair, five, four, three, and six, To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix. Now what will that make, fifty chickens, I said, Fifty times three and six pence, I'll ask brother Ned. Oh, but stop, three and six pence, a pair I must sell, um. Well, a pair is a couple, now, then, let us tell them. A couple and fifty will go, my poor brain. Why, just a score times, and five pair will remain. Twenty-five pairs of fouls, now how tiresome it is, That I can't reckon up so much money as this. Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess. I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow. Thirty geese and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow. Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas to skleer. Forgetting her burden, when this, she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head, When alas for her prospects, her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for her future were ended. This moral, I think, may be safely attached. Wrecking not on your chickens, before they are hatched. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hiawatha's Childhood by Henry W. Longfellow From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2. Poems Old and New, Read for Liebervox. By the shores of Gitch-Gummi, by the shining big sea water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, daughter of the moon Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, rose the black and gloomy pine trees, Rows the firs with cones upon them, right before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, beat the shining big sea water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis, nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews, stilled his fretful wail by saying, Hush, the naked bear will hear thee, lulled him into slumber singing, Iwaye, my little Owlet, who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam, Iwaye, my little Owlet. Many things Nokomis taught him of the stars that shine in heaven, Showed him Ishkoda, the comet, Ishkoda with fiery tresses, Showed the death dance of the spirits, warriors with their plume and war clubs, Flaring far away to northward, in the frosty nights of winter, Showed the broad white road in heaven, pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door, on summer evenings, sat the little Hiawatha, Heard the whispering of the pine trees, heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder. Many Wawa, said the pine trees, Mudwe Ashka, said the water, Saw the firefly, Wawa Taisi, flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle, lighting up the breaks and bushes, And he sang the song of children, saying the song Nokomis taught him, Wawa Taisi, little firefly, little flitting white fire insect, Little dancing white fire creature, light me with your little candle, Air upon my bed, I lay me, air in sleep, I close my eyelids, Saw the moon rise from the water, Rippling rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, whispered, What is that, Nokomis? And the good Nokomis answered, Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother and threw her Up into the sky at midnight, Right against the moon he threw her, Tiss her body that you see there, Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky the rainbow, Whispered, What is that, Nokomis? And the good Nokomis answered, Tiss the heaven of flowers you see there, All the wildflowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us, When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, What is that, he cried in terror, What is that, he said, Nokomis? And the good Nokomis answered, That is but the owl and Owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking scolding at each other, Then the little Hiawatha, Learn of every bird its language, Learn their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them when air he met them, Called them Hiawatha's chickens, Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them when air he met them, Called them Hiawatha's brothers. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Seven times two by Jean Ingello, from the junior classics volume 10 part two, Poems old and new, read for Libravox. Young bells in the steeple, Ring out your changes, How many so ever they be, And let the brown metal-larks note, As he ranges, Come over, come over to me. Yet birds clear as carol, By fall or by swelling, No magical scents conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling, The fortune of future days. Turn again, turn again, Once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone, Made his heart yearn again, Musing so wearily, all by himself on a stone. Poor bells, I forgive you, Your good days are over, And mine they are yet to be. No listening, no longing, Shall ought, ought discover, You leave the story to me. The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow. She was idle and slept till the sunshiney weather, O children, take long to grow. I wish, and I wish, That the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bid so late, And I could grow on Like the fox-glove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day When dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head. The child is a woman, The book may close only, For all the lessons are said. I wait for my story, The birds cannot sing it, Not one as he sits on the tree. The bells cannot bring it, But long years, O bring it, Such as I wish it to be. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whitter From the Junior Classics, Volume Ten, Part Two Palms Old and New, Red for LibriVox Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot Boy, with cheek of tan, With thy upturned pantaloons, And thy merry whistle-tunes, With thy red lip, redder stale, Kissed by strawberries on the hill, With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brims jaunty grace, From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a Barefoot Boy. Prince Thou art the grown-up man, Only is Republican, Let the million-dollar ride Barefoot trudging at his side, Though haste more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy, Blessings on thee, Barefoot Boy, O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude, Of the tenants of the wood, How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground mole sinks his well, How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung, Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine, Of the black wasps cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornets artisans, For eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks, Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part in parcel of her joy, Blessings on the Barefoot Boy, O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for, I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming birds and honey bees, For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade, For my taste the blackberry cone, Purpleed over hedge and stone, Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall, Mine the sand-rimmed, Pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine unbending orchard trees, Apples of hesperides, Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too, All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a Barefoot Boy, O for festal dainty spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the doorstone gray and rude, Or me like a regal tent, Cloudy ribbed the sunset bent, Purple curtain fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind swung fold, While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra, And to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire, I was monarch, pomp and joy, Waited on the Barefoot Boy. Cheerily then, my little man, Live and laugh as boyhood can, Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new moan-sward, Every mourn shall lead thee through, Fresh baptisms of the dew, Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat, All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's, for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil, Happy if their track be found, Never on forbidden ground, Happy if they sink not in, Quick and treacherous sands of sin, Ah, that thou couldst know thy joy, Or it passes Barefoot Boy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thanksgiving Day By Lydia Maria Child From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and Due, Read for LibriVox Over the river and through the wood To grandfather's house we go, The horse knows the way To carry this sleigh Through the white and drifted snow, Over the river and through the wood, Oh, how the wind does blow, Istings the toes and bites the nose, As over the ground we go. Over the river and through the wood To have a first-right play, Hear the bell's ring, Ting-a-ling-ding, Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river and through the wood Trot fast my dapple gray, Spring over the ground like a hunting hound, For this is Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood And straight through the barnyard gate, We seem to go extremely slow, It is so hard to wait. Over the river and through the wood Now grandmother's cap I spy, Hurrah for fun is the pudding done, Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Romance of the Swan's Nest by Elizabeth Barrett Browning From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Little Ellie sits alone, Mid the beaches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down, Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping, In the shallow waters flow, Now she holds them nakedly, In her hands all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses, Fills the silence like a speech, While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. Little Ellie, in her smile, Chooses I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds, He shall love me with gill, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath, And the loot he plays upon, Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. And the steed it shall be shod, All in silver housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind, And the hoofs along the sod, Shall flash onward and keep measure Till the shepherds look behind. But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, Oh, love, thine eyes, Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace. Then, ay then, he shall kneel low, With the red-roaned steed, A near him, which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, rise and go, For the world must love and fear him, Whom I gift with heart and hand. Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble, With a yes, I must not say, Naithless, maiden-brave, farewell, I will utter and dissemble, Light to moral with today. Then he'll ride among the hills, To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make street distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver, Which the wicked bear along. Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet. Low my master sends this gauge, Lady, for thy pity is counting, What will thou exchange for it? And the first time I will send, A white rosebud for a geardun, And the second time a glove, But the third time I may bend, From my pride an answer pardon, If he comes to take my love. Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee, I am a duke's eldest son. Thousand serfs do call me master, But, oh love, I love but thee, He will kiss me on the mouth, Then and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds, And, when soul tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover, That swan's nest among the reeds. Little Ellie, with her smile, Not yet ended, Rose up gaily, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two, Pushing through the elm-tree cobs, Winding up the stream light-hearted, Where the ocier pathway leads, Past the bow she stoops and stops, Low the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had nod the reeds. Ellie went home, sad and slow, If she found the lover ever, With his red-rown steed of steeds, Sooth I know not, But I know, she could never show him, Never, that swan's nest among the reeds. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of Spring by Mary Howett, From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for Leapervox. I am coming, I am coming, Hark, the little bee is humming, See the lark is soaring high, In the blue and sunny sky, And the gnats are on the wing, Wheeling round in airy ring. See the yellow catkins cover, All the slender willows over, And on the banks of mossy green, Star-like primroses are seen, And their clustering leaves below, White and purple violets below. Hark, the newborn lambs are bleeding, And the cawing rocks are meeting. In the elms, a noisy crowd, All the birds are singing loud, And the first white butterfly In the sunshine dances by. Look around thee, look around, Flowers in all the fields abound. Every running stream is bright, All the orchard trees are white, And each small and waving shoot Promises sweet flowers and fruit. Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven, God for thee the spring has given, Taught the birds their melodies, Cloth the earth and cleared the skies, For thy pleasure or thy food, Pour thy soul in gratitude. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Green Things Growing By Dinah, Maria, Mullick, From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Oh, the green things growing, The green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing, I should like to live, Whether I smell or grieve, Just to watch the happy life Of my green things growing. Oh, the fluttering and the pattering Of those green things growing, How they talk each to each When none of us are knowing, In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight, Or the dim dreamy dawn When the cocks are crowing. I love, I love them so, My green things growing, And I think that they love me Without false showing. For by many a tender touch They comfort me so much, With the soft, mute comfort Of green things growing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. God who created me, Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free To run, to ride, to swim, Not when the sun's system, But now from the heart of joy I would remember him, Take the thanks of a boy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Daffodils by William Wordsworth, From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox.org I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high Over veils and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze, Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay, Ten thousand so I, at a glance, Tossing their heads in a sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, But they outdid the sparkling waves in glee, A poet could not but be gay, In such a jokin' company. I gazed and gazed, But little thought, What wealth the show to me had brought, For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or impensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Daffodil by Catherine T. Hinkson From the Junior Classics Volume 10 Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox.org Who passes down the wintry street, Hey, ho, daffodil, A sudden flame of golden sweet, With sword of emerald girt to meet, And golden gay from head to feet? How are you here, this wintry day, Hey, ho, daffodil, You radiant fellows yet delay? No windflower dances scarlet gay, Nor crocus flame lights up the way, What land of cloth of gold and green, Hey, ho, daffodil, Cloth of gold with a green between? Was that you left but yester even, To light a gloomy world and mean? King trumpeter to flora's queen, Hey, ho, daffodil, Blow when the golden jousts begin. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. July by Susan Hartley Sweatt From the Junior Classics Volume 10 Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Caroline Kiley When the scarlet cardinal tells her dream to the dragonfly, And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, And murmurs a lullaby, it is July. When the tangled cobweb pulls the cornflower's caperai, And the lilies tall lean over the wall To bow to the butterfly, it is July. When the heat like a mist veil floats And poppy's flame in the rye, And the silver note in the streamlet's throat Has softened almost to a sigh, it is July. When the hours are so still that time forgets them, And lets them lie neath petals pink Till the night stars wink at the sunset in the sky, It is July. When each finger post by the way Says that slumber town is nigh, When the grass is tall, And the roses fall, And nobody wonders why, it is July. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To the Fringe Gentian by William Cullen Bryant From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox, Recording by Tony Dark Thou Blossom Bright with Autumn Dew, And colored with the Heaven's Own Blue, That Openest When the Quiet Light Succeeds the Keen and Frosty Night, Thou Commiss Not When Violets Lean, Or Wandering Brooks and Springs Unseen, Or Columbines in Purple Dressed, Not Over the Groundbird's Hidden Nest, Thou Waitest Late and Commissed Alone When Woods Are Bare and Birds Are Flown, And Frosts and Shortening Days Portend, The Aged Year is near his end, Then Doth Thy Sweet and Quiet Eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall, I would that thus when I shall see That hour of death draw near to me, Hope blossoming within my heart May look to heaven as I depart. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain, Recording by Tony Dark Summer Days, Anonymous From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox, Recording by Tony Dark Winter is cold-hearted, Spring is yay and nay, Autumn is a weather-cock, Blown every way, Summer days for me, When every leaf is on its tree, When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny rends a bride, And Larks hang singing, singing, Singing over the wheat fields wide, And Anchored Lily's ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side, And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten, That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And lady birds arrive, Before green apples blush, Before green nuts and brown, Why one day in the country Is worth a month in town, Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion, The day's drone elsewhere. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain, Recording by Tony Dark Woodman Spare That Tree by George Pope Morse From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox, Recording by Tony Dark Woodman, spare that tree, Touch not a single bow, In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now, For as my forefather's hand, That placed it near his cot, There Woodman, let it stand, Thy ax shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread over land and sea, And wouldest thou hew it down? Woodman, for bear thy stroke, Cut not its earthbound ties, O spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies, When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade, And all their gushing joy, Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here, My father pressed my hand, Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand. My heart strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend, Here shall the wild bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree, the storm still brave, And Woodman lead the spot, While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not. In County Antrim, Northern Ireland, Situated in the northeast Of the island of Ireland, The sun with his great eye, Sees not so much as I, And the moon, all silver-pride, Might as well be in a cloud, And oh, the spring, the spring, I lead the life of a king, Couched in the teeming grass, I spy each pretty lass, I look where no one dares, And I stare where no one stares, And when the night is nigh, Lambs, bleat, my lullaby. Now I shall be out of sight, So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way. I will not go on with that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they. Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest, He lit on the trees and their boughs he'd dressed in diamond beads, And over the breast of the quivering lake he spread a coat of mail, That it need not fear the downward point of many a spear That hung on its margin far and near, Where a rock could rear its head. He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pain like a fairy crept. Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, By the light of the moon Were seen the most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, There were bevvies of birds and swarms of bees, There were cities with temples, And towers and these all pictured in silver sheen. But he did one thing that was hardly fair. He peeped in the cupboard, And finding there that all had forgotten for him to prepare. Now just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit, said he. This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the glass of water they've left for me Shall chink to tell them I'm drinking. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. April's gift to April's bees, Birthday ornaments of spring, Flora's Ferris daughterling. Coming when no flowerettes dare, Trust the cruel outer air. When the royal king cut bold, Dares not dawn his coat of gold, And the sturdy black-thorn spray Keeps his silver for the may. Coming when no flowerettes would, Save thy lowly sisterhood. Early violets, blue and white, Dying for their love of light. Almond blossom sent to teach us That the spring day soon will reach us, Less with longing over-tried, We die as the violets died. Blossom clouding all the tree, With thy crimson broitory, Long before a leaf of green On the bravest bow is seen, All when winter winds are swinging, All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, Almond bloom, we greet thee well. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tony Dark. A Song of Clover by Saxholm. From the junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox. Recording by Tony Dark. I wonder what the Clover thinks, Intimate friend of Bobo Lynx, Lover of Daisy, Slim and White, Walter with Buttercups at night, Keeper of Inn for traveling bees, Serving to them wine, draggs and lees, Left by the royal hummingbirds Who sip and pay with fine spun words. Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best, Comrade of winds, Beloved of sun, Kiss by the dew drops one by one, Prophet of good luck mystery, By sign of four which few may see, Symbol of nature's magic zone, One out of three and three in one, Emblem of comfort in the speech, Which poor man's babies early reach, Sweet by roadside, sweet by rills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, O half its sweetness cannot be said, Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest perhaps at last in death, O who knows, what the Clover thinks, No one, unless the Bobo Lynx. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Tony Dark. A Storm in the Distance by Paul A. Chane From The Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2. Poems Old and New. Read for LibriVox.org. Recording by Brooke Favorite, www.alongsidemom.com. A Storm in the Distance by Paul A. Chane I see the cloud-born squadrons of the gale, Their lines of rain like glittering spears depressed, While all the affrighted land grows darkly pale, In flashing charge on earth's half-shielded breast. Sounds like the rush of trampling columns float, From that fierce conflict, volleied thunders peel, Blent with the maddened wind's wild bugle note, The lightning's flash, the solid woodland's reel. Ha! many a foliageed guardian of the height, Majestic pine or chestnut, ribbon and bear, Falls in the rage of that aerial flight, Led by the prince of all the powers of air. Vast boughs like shattered banners hurdling fly, Down the thick tumult, while like emerald snow, Millions of orphaned leaves make wild the sky, Or drift in shuttering helplessness below. Still, still, the levelled lances of the rain, At earth's half-shielded breast take glittering aim, All spaces rife with fury racked with pain, Earth bathed in vapor and heaven rent by flame. At last the cloud battalions through long rifts Of luminous mists retire, the strife is done, And earth once more her wounded beauty lifts, To meet the healing kisses of the sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Seven times four by Jean Ingello. From the junior classics volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New. Red for LibriVox.org. Recording by Brooke Favorite, www.alongsidemom.com. Seven times four by Jean Ingello. High hoe, daisies and buttercups, fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, when the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses and dance with the cuckoo buds slender and small. Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, eager to gather them all. High hoe, daisies and buttercups, mother shall thread them a daisy chain, sing them a song of the pretty hedge sparrow, that loved her brown little ones, loved them full fare. Sing, heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow, sing once and sing it again. High hoe, daisies and buttercups, sweet wagging cow slips they bend and they bow, a ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, and happily one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown suns and oh sweet little daughters, maybe he thinks on you now. High hoe, daisies and buttercups, fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, a sunshiney world full of laughter and leisure, and fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall, send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wort, that from heaven or near it poorest thy full heart, in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher from the earth thou springest, like a cloud of fire, the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning of the sunken sun, or which clouds are brightening, thou dost float and run, like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even melts around thy flight, like a star of heaven in the broad daylight. Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere, whose intense lamp narrows in the white dawn clear, until we hardly see we feel that it is there. All the earth and air, with they voice is loud, as when night is bare from one lonely cloud, the moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not, what is most like thee? From rainbow clouds their flow not, drops so bright to see, as from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns unbidden till the world is wrought, to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden in a palace tower, soothing her love laden, soul in secret hour, with music sweet as love which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial hue, among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view. Like a rose emboured in its own green leaves, by warm winds deflowered till the scent it gives, makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, rain awakened flowers all that ever was. Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, what sweet thoughts are thine? I have never heard, praise of love or wine, that panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymnial or triumphal chant, matched with thine would be all but an empty vaunt. A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? With thy clear, keen joyance, languor cannot be. Shadow of annoyance never came near thee. Thou lovest but nair new loves, sad satiety. Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem. Things more true and deep than we mortals dream. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after and pine for what is not. Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn hate and pride and fear, if we were things born not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found. Thy skill to poet were, thou scornor of the ground. Teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know. Such harmonious madness from my lips would flow. The world should listen then as I am listening now. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Swimming by Lord Byron From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Recording by Brooke Favorite www.alongsidemom.com Swimming by Lord Byron How many a time have I cloven with arms still lustier, breast more daring, the wave all roughened with a swimmer's stroke, flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, and laughing from my lip the audacious brine, which kissed it like a wine-cup rising o'er. The waves as they arose and prouder still, the loftier they uplifted me and offed, in wantonness of spirit plunging down, into the green and glossy gulfs, and making my way to shells and seaweed all unseen, by those above till they waxed fearful, then returning with my grasp full of such tokens, as showed that I had searched the deep, exulting, with a far dashing stroke and drawing deep, the long suspended breath again I spurned, the foam which broke around me and pursued my track like a sea-bird. I was a boy then. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain The Brooke by Alfred Tennyson From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Brooke Favorite www.alongsidemom.com The Brooke by Alfred Tennyson I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps a little town, and half a hundred bridges, till last by Phillips Farm I flow, to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret, by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy forland set, with willow weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter as I flow, to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I wind about and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake, upon me as I travel, with many a silvery water break, above the golden gravel, and draw them all along, and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers, I move the sweet forget-me-nots, that grow for happy lovers, I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance, against my sandy shallows, I murmur under moon and stars, in brambly wildernesses, I linger by my shingly bars, I loiter around my cresses, and out again I curve and flow, to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Bugle Song by Alfred Tennyson. From The Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New. Read for LibriVox.org. Recording by Brooke Favorite. www.alongsidemom.com. The Bugle Song by Alfred Tennyson. The splendor falls on castle walls, and snowy summits old in story. The long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh hark, oh hear, how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going. Oh sweet and far from cliff and scar, the horns of Elfland faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying. Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh love, they die in yawn-rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Brave Old Oak by H.F. Shoreley. From the junior classics volume 10 part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org The Brave Old Oak by H.F. Shoreley. A song to the oak, the Brave Old Oak who hath ruled in the Greenwood Long hears health and renown to his broad green crown and his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down and the fire in the west fades out and he showeth his might on a wild midnight when the storm through his branches shout. Then hears to the oak, the Brave Old Oak who stands in his pride alone in a tree when a hundred years are gone. In the days of old when the spring with cold had brightened his branches gray through the grass at his feet crept made in sweet to gather the dew of May and on that day to the rebeck gay they frolicked with love some swains. They are gone, they are dead in the churchyard laid, but the tree it still remains. Then hears, etc. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes was a merry sound to hear when the squires wide-haul and the cottage small were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath a sway we all obey and a ruthless king is he, but he never shall send our ancient friend to be tossed on the stormy sea. Then hears, etc. End of poem This recording is