 Antony and Cleopatra by William Haynes Lytle Red for LibriVox.org by Miss Averis I am dying, Egypt, dying, ebbs the crimson life tied fast, and the dark plutonian shadows gather on the evening blast. Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, hush thy sobs and bow thine ear. Listen to the great heart secrets, thou and thou alone must hear. Though my scarred and veteran legions, beather eagles high no more, and my wrecked and scattered galleys shrew dark acchims fatal shore. Though no glittering guards surround me, prompt to do their masters will, I must perish like a Roman, die the great triumvir still. Let not Caesar's servile minions mock the lion thus laid low, twas no foe man's arm that felt him, twas his own that struck the blow. His who pillowed on thy bosom turned aside from glory's ray, his who drunk with thy caresses madly threw a world away. Should the base plebeian ravel dare assail my name at Rome, where my noble spouse Octavia weeps within her widowed home, seek her, say the God's bear witness alters augurs circling wings, that her blood with mine commingled, yet shall mount the throne of kings. As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, glorious sorceress of the Nile, light the path to stygian horrors with the splendors of thy smile. Give the Caesar crowns and arches, let his brow the laurel twine. I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, triumphant in love like thine. I am dying, Egypt, dying, hark, the insulting foe man's cry. They are coming, quick, my falchion, let me front them ere I die. Ah, no more mid the battle shall my heart-exulting swell. Isis and Osiris guard thee, Cleopatra, Rome, farewell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Bronte Legend by Lesbia Harford Read for LibriVox.org by MusicalHeart1 They say she was a creature of the Moor, a lover of the angels, silence-bound. She sought no friendships. She was too remote her sister Charlotte found. I know she nursed her brother till he died, although she didn't like him. That she had housework and all the ironing to do, because the maids were bad. And in the midst of it she wrote a book. There could have been small leisure for the Moor while wandering. She used to mend and sew, the family was so poor. Her brother died. But she died just as soon as she had nursed dear Charlotte through the shock of Patrick's death. Contemplative? Well, well, no simian of the rock. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Christmas Day in the Workhouse. Poem by George R. Sims. Read by Jules Harlock for LibriVox.org. It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse, and the cold bare walls are bright, with garlands of green and holly, and the place is a pleasant sight. For with clean washed hands and faces and a long and hungry line, the poppers sit at the table for this is the hour they dine. And the guardians and their ladies, although the wind is east, have come in their furs and wrappers to watch their charges feast, to smile and be condescending, putting on popper plates, to be hosts at the Workhouse banquet they've paid for with the rates. Oh, the poppers are meek and lowly with their thanky kindly mums. So long as they're fill their stomachs, what matters whence it comes. But one of the old man mutters and pushes his plate aside. Great God he cries, but it chokes me for this is the day she died. The guardians gaze in horror and the master's face went white. Did a popper refuse their pudding? Could their ears believe a right? Then the ladies clutch their husbands, thinking the man would die, struck by a bolt or something by the outraged one on high. But the popper sat for a moment, then rose mid-sentence, silence grim, for the others had ceased to chatter and trembled in every limb. He looked at the guardians, ladies then, eyeing their lords, he said, I eat not the food of villains whose hands are foul and red, whose victims cry for vengeance from their dark and hallowed graves. He's drunk, said the workhouse master, or else he's mad and raves. Not drunk or mad, cried the popper, but only a haunted beast who torn by the hounds and mangled declines the vultures feast. I care not a curse for the guardians and I won't be dragged away. Just let me have the fit out. It's only on Christmas Day that the black past comes to gold me and pray upon my burning brain. I'll tell you the rest in a whisper. I swear I won't shout again. Keep your hands off me, curse you. Hear me right out to the end. You come here to see how poppers the season of Christmas spend. You come here to watch us feeding as they watched the captured beast. Here's why a penniless popper spits on your paltry feast. Do you think I will take your bounty and let you smile and think you're doing a noble action with the perishes, meat, and drink? Where is my wife, you traitors? The poor old wife you slew. Yes, by the God above me, my nance was killed by you. Last winter, my wife lay dying, starved in a filthy den. I had never been to the parish. I came to the parish then. I swallowed my pride in coming for ere the rune came. I held up my head as a trader and I bore a spotless name. I came to the parish, craving bread for a starving wife, bread for the woman who loved me through 50 years of life. And what do you think they told me, mocking my awful grief, that the house was open to us, but they wouldn't give out relief? I slung to the filthy alley to as a cold, raw Christmas Eve, and the baker's shops were open, tempting a man to thieve. But I clenched my fists together, holding my head or eye, so I came to her empty-handed and mournfully told her why. Then I told her the house was open. She had heard of the ways of that. For her bloodless cheeks went crimson and up in her rag she sat, crying, by the Christmas here, John, we've never had one apart. I think I can bear the hunger. The other would break my heart. All through that Eve, I watched her holding her hand in mine, praying the Lord and weeping till my lips were salt as brine. I asked her once if she hungered and she answered no. The moon shone at the window, set in a wreath of snow. Then the room was bathed in glory and I saw in my darling's eyes the faraway look of wonder that comes when the spirit flies and her lips were parched and parted and her reason came and went for she raved of our home in Devon where our happiest years were spent. And the accents, long-forgotten came back to the tongue once more for she talked like the country lassie I would by the Devon shore. Then she rose to her feet and trembled and fell on the rags and moaned and give me a crust unfamished for the love of God she groaned. I rushed from the room like a madman and flew to the warehouse gate, crying, food for a dying woman and the answer came too late. They drove me away with curses and then I fought with a dog in the street and I tore from the mongrel's clutches a crust he was trying to eat back through the filthy byways back through the trampled slush up to the crazy garret wrapped in an awful hush. My heart sank down at the threshold and I paused with a sudden thrill for there in the silvery moonlight my nance laid cold and still. Up to the black and sealing the sunken eyes were cast. I knew on those lips all bloodless my name had been the last. She called for her absent husband oh God had I known had called in vain and in anguish had died in the den alone. Yes there in a land of plenty lay a loving woman dead cruelly starved and murdered for a loaf of parish bread at yonder gate last Christmas I craved for a human life you who would feed as poppers one of my murdered wife. There get you gone to your dinners don't mind me in the least think of the happy poppers eating your Christmas feast and when you recount their blessings in your parochial way say what you did for me to only last Christmas day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cousin Kate by Christina Rossetti read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley May 2010 I was a cottage maiden hardened by son and heir contented with my cottage mates not mindful I was fair why did a great lord find me out and praise my flaxen hair why did a great lord find me out to fill my heart with care he lured me to his palace home woes me for joy thereof to lead a shameless shameful life his plaything and his love he wore me like a silken knot he changed me like a glove so now I moan an unclean thing who might have been a dove oh lady Kate my cousin Kate you grew more fair than I he saw you at your father's gate chose you and passed me by he watched your steps along the lane your work among the rye he lifted you from mean estate to sit with him on high because you were so good and pure he bound you with his ring the neighbors call you good and pure call me an outcast thing even so I sit in howl and dust you sit in gold and sing now which of us has tenderer heart you had a stronger wing oh cousin Kate my love was true your love was written sand if he had fooled not me but you if you stood where I stand he'd not have won me with his love nor bought me with his land I would have spit into his face and not have taken his hand yet I've a gift you have not got and seem not like to get for all your clothes and wedding ring I've little doubt you fret my fair haired son my shame my pride clean closer closer yet your father would give lands for one to wear his coronet end of poem this recording is in the public domain death by Emily Dickinson read for libraryvox.org by Clare Leung because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me the carriage helped by just ourselves and immortality we slowly drove he knew no haste and I happened to weigh my labor and my leisure too for his civility we passed the school where children played their lessons scarcely done we passed the fields of grazing grain we passed the setting sun we paused before house that seemed a swelling of the ground the roof was scarcely visible the cornice but a mound since then two centuries at each field shorter than the day I first surmised the horse's heads word to word eternity east or west by Charles Tennyson Turner read for libraryvox.org by Guero I sat within a window looking west on a fair autumn eve the forest leaves moved over fiery sunset vision blessed after that day of storm and rainy eaves while thus I gazed I heard a sweet voice cry come to the east and see the rainbow die on the last shower a non the moon will rise and light the village when the rainbow dies betwixt the two I could not well decide for each was fair and both would vanish soon but that sweet voice cried eastward still I knew no light would pierce the wood when day withdrew so I went east into the rising moon the village brightened when the rainbow died and a poem this recording is in the public domain Echo by Christina Rosetti read for libraryvox.org by Fatima come to me in the silence of the night come in the speaking silence of a dream come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright as sunlight on a stream come back in tears or memory of hope love of finished years oh dream how sweet too sweet too bittersweet whose waking should have been in paradise where souls brimful of love abide in meat with thirsting longing eyes watch the slow door that opening letting in lets out no more yet come to me in dreams that I may live my life again though cold in death come back to me in dreams that I may give pulse for pulse breath for breath speak low, lean low as long ago my love how long ago end of poem this recording is in the public domain the face upon the floor poet H. Anton Darcy read for libraryvox.org by Jules Harleck twas a palm-y summer evening and a goodly crowd was there which well night filled Joe's bar room on the corner of the square and as songs and witty stories came through the open door a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor where did it come from someone said the wind has blown it in what does it want another cried some whiskey rum or gin here Toby seek him if your stomach's equal to the work I wouldn't touch him with a fork he's as filthy as a Turk this bodnage the poor rich took with stoical good grace in fact he smiled as though he thought his he'd struck the proper place come boys I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd to be in such good company would make a deacon proud give me a drink that's what I want I'm out of funds you know when I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow you laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a suit I once was fixed as well my boys as any one of you there thanks that braced me nicely God bless you one and all next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call give you a song no I can't do that my singing days are passed my voice is cracked my throat worn out and my lungs are going fast give me another whiskey and I'll tell you what I'll do I'll tell you a funny story and a fact I promised to that I ever was a decent man not one of you would think but I was some four or five years back give me another drink fill her up Joe I want to put some life into my fame such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame five fingers there that's the scheme and corking whiskey too well here's luck boys and landlord my best regards to you you've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sought you see before you now as I told you once I was a man with muscle frame and health and but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth I was a painter not one that dogged on bricks and wood but an artist and for my age was rated pretty good I worked hard on my canvas and was bidding fair to rise for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes I made a picture perhaps you've seen just called the chase of fame it brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name and then I met a woman now comes the funny part with eyes that petrified my brain and sunk into my heart why don't you laugh just funny that the vagabond you see could ever love a woman and expect her love for me but trust so and for a month or two her smiles were freely given and when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give with a form like Milo Venus too beautiful to live with eyes that would beat the Collinore and the wealth of chestnut hair if so trust she for there was never another half so fair I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May of a fair haired boy a friend of mine who lived across the way and Madeline admired it and much to my surprise said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes it didn't take long to know him and before the month had flown my friend had stolen my darling and I was left alone and air a year of misery had passed above my head the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead that's why I took to drink boys why I never saw you smile I thought you'd be amused in laughing all the while why what's the matter friend there's a tear drop in your eye come laugh like me there's only babes and women that should cry say boys if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar room floor another drink and with the chalk in hand the vagabond began to sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head with a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead end of poem this recording is in the public domain Felix Randall by Jared Manley Hopkins read for Libby Vox.org by Algie Pug Perth Western Australia Felix Randall, a farrier, oh, is he dead then? My duty all ended who have watched his mould of man big-boned and hardy-handsome pining, pining till time and reason rambled in it and some fatal fortisodus fleshed there all contended thickness broke him impatient he cursed at first but mended being anointed in all though a heavenly heart began some months earlier since I had a sweetly preven round some tender to him ah, well, God rest him, old road, ever he offended this scene is sick endears them to us us too, endears my tongue had taught thee comfort touch, had quenched thy tears thy tears that touched my heart child Felix, poor Felix Randall how far from then forethought of all thy more boisterous years when thou at the random grim forge powerful amidst peers did's fiddled for the great great-rehorse his bright and batter and sandal end of poem this recording is in the public domain this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Calland Ford Church by John Greenlee Whittier read for LibriVox by Eric Stoltz build at Calland Ford by the sea your church as stately as church may be and there shalt thou wed my daughter fair said the lord of Nezvec, Desmond Snare and the baron laughed Desmond said, though I lose my soul I will have her wed and off he strode in his pride of will to the troll who dwelt in Alshore Hill build O troll a church for me at Calland Ford by the mighty sea build it stately build it fair build it quickly said Desmond Snare but the slide wharf said no work is wrought by the trolls of the hills, O man, for not what wilt thou give for thy church so fair that thine own price thought Desmond Snare when Calland Ford Church is build it well then must the name of its builder tell o thy heart and thy eyes must be my bone build, said Desmond and build it soon by night and by day the troll wrought on he hewed the timbers he piled the stone but day by day is the walls gross fair darker and sadder grew Desmond Snare he listened by night he listened by day he sought and thought but he did not pray in vain he called on the elmade shy and the neck and the knees with no reply of his evil bargain far and wide a rumour ran through the countryside in Helva of Nezvec young and fair prayed for the soul of Desmond Snare and now just as warm I'd done one pillar of that and one alone and the grim troll muttered O, there art, tomorrow gives me thy eyes and hearts by Callandburg in black despair the wood in meadow walked Desmond Snare to warn and weary strongman sank under the birches on all shore bank at his last day's work he heard the troll hammer delving the poorie's hole for him the church stood large and fair I have built in my tomb, said Esmond Snare and he closed his eyes and sighed to hide when he heard a light step at his side O, Esmond Snare, sweet voice said would I might die now in thy stead with a grasp by love and by fear made strong he held her fast and he held her long with a beating heart of a bird of fear she hid her face in this flame-red beard O, love, he cried let me look today in thine eyes on mine I plucked away let me hold thee close let me feel thy heart am I the troll had still torn apart I sinned, well, about the love of thee pray that the Lord Christ pardoned me but fast as she prayed and fast as still hammered the troll on all shore hill he knew as he wrought that a loving heart was somehow baffling his evil heart for more than spell of elf patrol was a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul and Esmond listened and he caught the sound of a troll wife singing underground tomorrow comes fine, father thine thy still and hush thee, baby mine lie still, my darling next sunrise, thou play with Esmond Snare's heart nigh's oh, poor Esmond is that your game thanks to the troll wife I know his name and the troll he heard it and he heard on to Cullenburg church with the lacking stone too late, gaffer fine cried Esmond Snare and troll and poor vanished in air that night the harvesters heard the sound of a woman sobbing underground and the voice of the hill troll loud with flame of the careless singer who told his name of the troll of the church they sing the rune by the northern sea in the harvest moon and the fishers of zealand hear him still scolding his wife, not sure he'll and seaward over the groves of birch still looks the tower of Cullenburg church where first at its altar a wedded bear stood helva of Nezvec and Esmond Snare end of poem this recording is in the public domain Kisses by Arthur Simons read for LibriVox.org by Guero sweet can I sing you the song of your kisses how soft is this one how subtle this is how fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is as a bird that taps at a leafy lattice how this one clings and how that uncloses from bud to flower in the way of roses and this through laughter and that through weeping swims to the brim where love lies sleeping and this in a pout I snatch and capture that in the ecstasy of rapture when the odorous red-brows petals part that my lips may find their way to the heart of the rose of the world your lips my rose but no song knows the way of my heart to the heart of my rose end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Lady of Shalott by Lord Alfred Tennyson read for LibriVox by Aubrey Kirkham on either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye that clothe the wold and meet the sky and through the field the road runs by to many-towered Camelot and up and down the people go gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below the island of Shalott Willow's Whiten, Aspen's Quiver little breezes dusk and shiver through the wave that runs forever by the island in the river flowing down to Camelot Four-gray walls and four-gray towers overlook a space of flowers and the silent isle embowers the Lady of Shalott by the margin Willow veiled slide the heavy barges trailed by slow horses and unhailed the shallot flittith silken sailed skimming down to Camelot But who has seen her wave her hand or at the casement seen her stand or is she known in all the land the Lady of Shalott Only reapers reaping early in among the bearded barley hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly down to towered Camelot and by the moon the reaper weary piling sheaves in upland's airy listening whispers tis the fairy Lady of Shalott Part 2 There she weaves by night and day a magic web with colors gay she has heard a whisper say a curse is on her if she stay to look down to Camelot She knows not what the curse may be and so she weaveth steadily and little other care hath she the Lady of Shalott And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year shadows of the world appear There she sees the highway near winding down to Camelot There the river eddy whirls and there the surly village churls and the red cloaks of market girls pass onward from Shalott Sometimes a troop of damsels glad an abbot on an ambling pad sometimes a curly shepherd lad or long haired page in crimson clad goes by to towered Camelot and sometimes through the mirror blue the nights come riding two and two she hath no loyal night in true the Lady of Shalott But in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights for often through the silent nights a funeral with plumes and lights and music went to Camelot Or when the moon was overhead came two young lovers lately wed I am hath sick of shadows said the Lady of Shalott Part 3 A bow shot from her bower eaves he rode between the barley sheaves the sun came dazzling through the leaves and flamed upon the brazen griefs of bold Sir Lancelot A Red Cross Knight forever kneeled to a lady in his shield that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote Shalott The gemmy bridle glittered free like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy The bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to Camelot and from his blazing Baldrick Slung a mighty silver bugle hung and as he rode his armor rung beside remote Shalott All in the blue and clouded weather thick jeweled shone the saddle leather the helmet and the helmet feather burned like one burning flame together as he rode down to Camelot As often through the purple night below the starry clusters bright some bearded meteor trailing light moves over still Shalott His broad clear brow and sunlit glowed on burnished hooves his warhose strode from underneath his helmet flowed his cold black curls as on he rode as he rode down to Camelot From the bank and from the river he flashed into the crystal mirror Tira Lyra by the river sang Sir Lancelot She left the web She left the loom She made three paces through the room She saw the water lily bloom She saw the helmet and the plume She looked down to Camelot Out flew the web and floated wide The mirror cracked from side to side The curses come upon me cried the lady of Shalott Part four In the stormy east wind straining the pale yellow woods were waning the broad stream in his banks complaining heavily the low sky raining over towered Camelot Down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left a float and round about the prow she roped the lady of Shalott And down the river's dim expanse like some bold seer in a trance seeing all his own misschance with a glassy countenance did she look to Camelot And at the closing of the day she loose the chain and down she lay the broad stream bore her far away the lady of Shalott Lying robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right the leaves upon her falling light Through the noises of the night she floated down to Camelot And as the boat had wound along the willowy hills and fields among they heard her singing her last song the lady of Shalott Heard a carol mournful holy chanted loudly chanted lowly till her blood was frozen slowly and her eyes were dark and holy turned toward towered Camelot For ere she reached upon the tide the first house by the waterside singing in her song she died the lady of Shalott Under tower and balcony by garden wall and gallery a gleaming shape she floated by dead pale between the houses high silent into Camelot Out upon the wharfs they came night and burger, lord and dame and round the prow they read her name the lady of Shalott Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near died the sound of royal cheer and they crossed themselves for fear all the nights at Camelot But Lentzalot mused a little space He said She has a lovely face God in his mercy lend her grace the lady of Shalott End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Landscape A Song by William Shenstone Read for LibriVox.org by Veggra How pleased within my native bowers air-wired I passed the day Was ever seen so decked with flowers Were ever flowers so gay How sweetly smiled the hill, the veil and all the landscape round The river gliding down the dale the hill with beaches crowned But now, when urged by tender woes I speed to meet my dear That hill and stream my zeal oppose and check my fond career No more, since Daphne was my theme their won'ted charms I see That verdant hill and silver stream Divide my lovin' me End of poem This recording is in the public domain A London Fate by Coventry Patmore Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes All night fell hammers, shock on shock With echoes Newgate's granite clanged The scaffold built At eight o'clock they brought the man out to be hanged Then came from all the people there A single cry that shook the air Mothers held up their babes to see Who spread their hands and crowed for glee Here a girl from her vesture tore a rag to wave with And joined the roar There a man with yelling tired Stopped and the culprits' crime inquired A sot below the doomed man dumb Bald his health in the world to come These blasphemed and fought for places Those half-crushed cast frantic faces to windows Where, in freedom's sweet, others enjoyed the wicked treat At last the show's black crisis pended Struggles for better standings ended The rabble's lips no longer cursed But stood agape with horrid thirst Thousands of breasts beat horrid hope Thousands of eyeballs, lit with hell, burnt one way all To see the rope unslackened as the platform fell The rope flew tight And then the roar burst forth afresh, less loud But more confused and a-frighting than before A few harsh tongues forever led the common din The chaos of noises, but ear could not catch what they said As when the realm of the damned rejoices At winning a soul to its will That clatter and clanger of hateful voices Sickened and stunned the air Until the dangling corpse hung straight and still The show complete, the pleasure past The solid masses loosened fast A thief slunk off with ample spoil To ply elsewhere his daily toil A baby strung its doll to a stick A mother praised the pretty trick Two children caught and hanged a cat Two friends walked on in lively chat And two who had disputed places Went forth to fight with murderous faces End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Morning Soul by C.J. Dennis Read for Libby Vox.org by Algie Pug Perth Western Australia The thrush is in the wattle tree and are you pretty dear? He's calling to his little wife for all the bush to hear He's wanting all the bush to know about his charming hen He sings it over fifty times and then begins again For it's morning, morning, the world is wet with dew With tiny drops of twinkle where the sun comes shining through The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robins underneath The little bluecaps dodging in and out amongst the heath And they're singing, boy, they're singing like they'd bust themselves to bits While up above old Laugh and Jack is having forty fits For it's morning, morning, the leaves are all ashyne There's treasure all about the place and all of it is mine Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man It's a grand to be a king With mornin' on the forest land and joy and everything It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do In the singin' land, the clean land washed again with dew When sunlight slants across the trees And birds begin to sing Then kings may snore in palaces But I'm awake and king But the king must cook his breakfast And the king must sweep the floor And out with ax on shoulder to his kingdom at the door His old dog sportin' on ahead, his troubles all behind And joy mixed in the blood of him because the world is kind For it's morning, morning, time to out and strive Oh, there's not a thing I'm askin' else, but just to be alive It's cranky moods a man will get and funny ways of mine For I have a memory of one whose thoughts were all unkind Who sat and brooded through the night beside the blazin' log His home a mirthless silent house is only pal a dog But it's morning, morning, I nursed no thought but praise I've more good friends than I could count, though I should count for days My friends are in the underbrush, my friends are in the trees And merrily they welcome me with morning melodies Above, below, from bush and bough each calls his tuneful part And best of all, one trusty friend is caught in my heart For it's morning, morning, when night's black troubles end And never man was friendless yet who stayed his own good friend Ben Murray, he's no friend of mine, and well I know the same But why should I be thinkin' hate and nursin' thoughts of blame? Last evening I had no friend within but troubles all around And madly thought to fight a man for ten or twenty pound But it's morning, morning, my friend within's alive And he'd never risk a twenty, though he might consider five But where's the call to think of strife with such good things about? The gum leaves are a twinkle as the sun comes peepin' out The blue cap's in and out the fern, red robin's on the gate And who could hear the morning song of them and hold a thought of hate? Oh, it's morning, morning, no time for thinkin' wrong And I be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong Gray thrush is in the wattle, and it's oh ye pretty dear He's callin' to his little wife, and don't care who should hear In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew And me ax is on my shoulder, and there's work ahead to do Oh, it's morning, singin' morning, in the land I count the best And with the heart unmindin' me, I'm singin' with the rest End of poem, this recording is in the public domain My Little Dreams by Georgia Douglas Johnson Read for LibriVox.org by Victoria Grace of Syracuse, New York I'm folding up my little dreams within my heart tonight And praying I may soon forget the torture of their sight For times deft fingers scroll my brow with foul relentless art I'm folding up my little dreams tonight within my heart End of poem, this recording is in the public domain My Love in Her Attire by Anonymous Read for LibriVox.org by Mr. Frerking My Love in Her Attire doth show her wit, it doth so well become her For every season she hath dressings fit, for winter, spring, and summer No beauty she doth miss when all her robes are on But beauty self she is when all her robes are gone End of poem, this recording is in the public domain My Mind to Me a Kingdom is by Sir Edward Dyer Read for LibriVox.org by Mr. Frerking My Mind to Me a Kingdom is, such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss, that earth of fords are gross by kind, Though much I want that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave No princely pomp, no wealthy store, no force to win the victory, No wily wit to salv a sore, no shape to feed a loving eye, To none of these I yield as thrall, for why? My Mind doth serve for all I see how plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soon do fall, I see that those which are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all, They get with toil, they keep with fear, such cares my mind could never bear Content I live, this is my stay, I seek no more than may suffice, I press to bear no haughty sway, look, what I lack my mind supplies, Lo, thus I triumph like a king, content with that my mind doth bring Some have too much, yet still do crave, I little have, and seek no more They are but poor, though much they have, and I am rich with little store They poor, I rich, they beg, I give, They lack, I leave, they pine, I live I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain, No worldly waves my mind can toss, my state at one doth still remain, I fear no foe, I fawn no friend, I loath not life, nor dread my end Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, their wisdom by their rage of will, Their treasure is their only trust, a cloaked craft their store of skill, But all the pleasure that I find is to maintain a quiet mind My wealth is health and perfect ease, my conscience clear my chief defence, I neither seek by bribes to please, nor by deceit to breed offence, Thus do I live, thus will I die, would all did so well as I. Then saw they how their hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them and descending they were where, that all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black stole, black hooded, like a dream, By these three queens with crowns of gold, And from them rose a cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And as it were one voice, an agony of lamentation, Like a wind that shrills all night in a wasteland, Where no one comes or hath come since the making of the world. Then murmured Arthur, Place me in the barge. So to the barge they came. There those three queens put forth their hands, And took the king, and wept. But she that rose the tallest of them all, And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shattered cask, And shaved his hands, and called him by his name, Complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood. For all his face was white and colourless, And like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east, And all his greaves and queases dashed with drops of onset, And the light and lustrous curls that made his forehead like a rising sun, High from the day's throne, reparched with dust, Were clotted into points and hanging loose, Mixed with a nightly growth that fringed his lips. So, like a shattered column, lay the king, Not like that Arthur who with lance and rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot through the list to Camelot, and charged, Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, Ah, my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble night. Such times have been not since the light That led the holy elders with a gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dissolved, Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds. And slowly answered Arthur from the barge, He hold water, changes, yielding place to new, And God fulfills himself in many ways. Lest one good custom should corrupt the world, Comfort thyself, what comfort isn't me. I have lived my life, in that which I have done, May he within himself make pure. But thou, if thou, shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul, more things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain For me night and day, for what are men better Than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life Within the brain? If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, Both for themselves and those who call them friend. For so the whole round earth is every way bound, My gold chains about the feet of God. But now, farewell, I am going a long way, With these thou seest, if indeed I go, For all my mind is clouded with a doubt, To the island valley of Avelion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly. But it lies, a deep meadowed, happy, there with orchard lawns, And bowery hollows ground with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my crevice won't. So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink like some full-breasted swan, That fluting a wild carol ere her death ruffles her pure cold plume, And takes the flood with swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere, revolving many memories, Till the whole looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mirror the wailing died away. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make the beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant poses. A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroided all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull. Fair-linered slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivory buds, With coral clasps and amber studs, And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat, As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be, Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd's sways shall dance and sing, For thy delight each may morning. If these delights they mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Red, Red Rose, by Robert Burns. Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry. Oh, my loves, like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. Oh, my loves, like the melody That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my Bonnie lass, So deep in love am I. And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang dry. Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with a sun. I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run. And fare thee well, my only love, And fare thee well awhile. And I will come again, my love, Though it were ten thousand mile. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox by Eric Stoltz. Two roads diverged in the yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveller, Long I stood, And looked down one as far as I could To where I bent in the underground. Then took the other, As just as fair and having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grass and wanted wear. Though as for that the passing there I'd worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day. Yet knowing how a way leads on to a way, I doubt if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence. Two roads diverged in a wood, And I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference. End of poem, This recording is in the public domain. We ask and ask, Thou smilest and art still, Out topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortality. And Thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, Self-honoured, self-secure, Didst tread on earth, on guest-act. Better so. All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, All griefs which bow, Find their soul's speech, And that victorious brow. End of poem, This recording is in the public domain. Where we stood while the storm swept by, Thunder gripping the earth, And lightning scrawled on the sky. The passing motorbuses swayed, For the street was a river of rain, Lashed into little golden waves, In the lamp-light stain. With the wild spring rain and thunder, My heart was wild and gay. Your eyes said more to me that night, Than your lips would ever say. I thought I had forgotten, But it all came back again to-night, With the first spring thunder, In a rush of rain. End of poem, This recording is in the public domain. They all were looking for a king, To raise their foes and lift them high. Thou camest a little baby thing, That made a woman cry. O son of man, To write my lot, Not but thy presence can avail, Yet on the road thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea thy sail. My how or when, Thou wilt not heed, But calm down, Thine own secret stare, That thou mayst answer all my need. Yes, every bygone prayer. This recording is in the public domain. End of recording. A Time to Talk, by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by John Pierce. 2010. When a friend calls to me from the road, And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't heard, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade end up and five feet tall, And plowed. I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Valediction, Forbidding Morning, by John Dunn. Read for LibriVox by Aubrey Kirkham. As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now, and some say no. So let us melt and make no noise, No tear floods nor sigh tempest move, Toward profanation of our joys, To tell the laity our love. Moving of the earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did and meant, But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far is innocent, Dull sublunary lovers love, Whose soul is sense cannot admit absence, Because it doth remove those things which elemented it. But we, by love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Interassured of the mind, Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, and dare not yet, A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to every thinness beat. If they be two, they are too so, As stiff twin compasses are two. Thy soul, the fixed foot, Makes no show to move, But doth, if the other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and harkens after it, And grows erect as that comes home, Such wilt thou be to me, Who must, like the other foot, Obliquely run. The firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It's a warm wind, the west wind, Full of birds' cries. I never hear the west wind, But tears are in my eyes, For it comes from the west lands, The old brown hills, And aprils in the west wind, And daffodils. It's a fine land, a west land, For hearts as tired as mine. Apple orchards blossom there, And the airs like wine. There is cool green grass there, Where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, Fluting from the nest. Will ye not come home, brother? You have been long away. It's April and blossom time, And white is the May, And bright is the sun, brother, And warm is the rain. Will ye not come home, brother, Home to us again? The young corn is green, brother, Where the rabbits run. It's blue sky and white clouds, And warm rain and sun. It's song to a man's soul, brother, Fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees, And see the merry spring again. Larks are singing in the west, brother, Above the green wheat. So will ye not come home, brother, And rest your tired feet. I've a balm for bruised heart, brother, Sleep for aching eyes, Says the warm wind, the west wind, Full of birds' cries. It's the white road westwards, Is the road I must tread, To the green grass, the cool grass, And rest for heart and head, To the violets, and the warm hearts, And the thrushes song, In the fine land, the west land, The land where I belong. And a poem this recording is in the public domain. Where's the Poet? By John Keats. Read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley. May 2010. Where's the Poet? Show him, show him. Muses nine. That I may know him. Tis the man who with a man Is an equal, be he king, Or poorest of the Becker clan, Or any other wondrous thing. A man may be twixed ape in Plato. Tis the man who with a bird, Ran or eagle, finds his way to, All its instincts he hath heard. The lion's roaring, and can tell. What his horny throat expresseth? And to him the tigers yell, Come articulate and presseth, Or his ear like mother tongue.