 I'd wandered for a week or more through hills and dells and dullful greenery, lodging at any carnal door sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe I'd just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip that cheapest form of dissipation. And violist oak infest my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your ode to a skylark sort of men, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is the slave who hesitates, when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells and pen descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaireous millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me! April 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humour, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant? June 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent, August 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I'd just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And, vilest, oh, confess my pen that I, prosaic, rather hate your owed-to-a-skylark sort of men, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal, and decent clothing overcame me, there came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then I wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart, in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column-rates to please my host, and meet my reckoning. Bass is the sleigh who hesitates, when wealth and pleasures both are beckoning, I sought, I found. Among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses, ah, millionaireous millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me! April, 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humour, kindly sinus in them? Refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant. June, 1874. Great Caesar! What a sweet young-ass I must have been when adolescent! August, 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker Red for Librebox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez I'd wandered for a week or more through hills and dels in doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on fork and scenery, while we rescribe I just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And violist, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your ode to a skylark, sort of men, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for decent meal and decent clothing overcame me, there came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote by pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates, to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bases the slave who hesitates, when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells, I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires, millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, or worldly knowledge pleasant with true humor kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant? June 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August 1886. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker, right for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok. I'd wondered for a week or more through hills and dells and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe, I'd just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And, vilest, oh, confess my pen, that I prosaic rather hate your owed-to-a-skylock sort of men, I really am not fond of nature. Met longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me, there came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column-rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bassist a slave who hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April 1871 Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant. June 1874 Great Caesar, what a sweet young gas I must have been, when adolescent. August 1886 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker, read for Lipavox.org by Chad Horner from Liverpool. I'd wondered, for a week or more, through hills and dales and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery, a weary scribe I'd just let slip, my caller, for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation, and, vile, oh, confess my pen, that I, broseg, rather hate your ode to a skylark sort of man, I really am not fond of nature, mad longing for a decent meal, and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my hail, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart, in search of gilded hunts of fashion, which I my puff at column rates, to please my host and meet my reckoning. Beas is this leaf who hesitates, when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I find, among the swells I have my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires, Millicent, my fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April 1871. It's not that fragmentary bit of my young verse, a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humour, kindly cynicism, refractive by the fuller glass of fancy, lay with change incessant. June 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August 1886. And to form this recording as in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence I'd wandered, for a week or more, through hills and delves, and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe, I just let slip my collar, for a short vacation, and started, on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And, vilest, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your, owed to a skylark, sort of man, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates, to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is a slave who, hesitates, when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and pen descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaireous millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me! How many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me! April, 1871 Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism? Where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant. June, 1874 Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescence. August, 1886 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker Read for LibriVox.org by Aaron Stone I'd wandered for a week or more, through hills and delves and doleful greenery, lodging at any cardinal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe I'd just let slip, my caller for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And Willis, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your owed-to-a-skylark sort of men. I really am not fond of nature, mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel, I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart, in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column-rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is the slave who, hesitates, when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bellies, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and oh, beloved, how you bored me. April, 1871. Does not that fragmentary bit of my young verse of perfect prism, were worldly knowledge pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant? June, 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August, 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker. Read for LibriVox.org by Gramscot Cheltenham, England. I'd wandered for a week or more through hills and dells and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scry by just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And vilest, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your ode to a sky-lark sort of men, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel. I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Base is the slave who hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found. Among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April, 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humour, kindly cynicism refracted by the frolic glass of fancy play with change incessant? June, 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August, 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe, I just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation. And, vilest, oh, confess my pin, that I, prosaic, rather hate your, owed to a skylock sort of men. I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel. I gave it up. And who could blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is the slave who hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found. Among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells and pin descriptions of their dresses. Ah, million-narrous, millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April, 1871 Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy play with change incessant? June, 1874 Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August, 1886 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker. Red for LibriVox.org by Kessie. I'd wandered for a week or more through hills and dells and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe I'd just let slip my collar for a short vacation and started on a walking trip that cheapest form of dissipation. And vilest, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your ode to a skylark, sort of man, I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister upon my heel. I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is the slave who hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are reckoning. I sought, I found, among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaris millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh, beloved, how you bored me. April, 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant? June, 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August, 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on poor concenery. A weary scribe, I just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip the cheapest form of dissipation. And, vilest, oh, confess my pen, that I, prosaic, rather hate your ode to a skylark sort of man. I really am not fond of nature, mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel. I give it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff up at column rates to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bases a slave who, hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning, I sought, I found. Among this wells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells and pinned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaris, millicent, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and oh, beloved, how you bored me. April 1871. Is not that fragmentary bit of my young verse a perfect prism? Where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humor, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant. June 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retrospection by George Baker. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. I'd wandered, for a week or more, through hills and dels and doleful greenery, lodging at any carnal door, sustaining life on pork and scenery. A weary scribe, I'd just let slip my collar for a short vacation, and started on a walking trip, that cheapest form of dissipation, and vilest, confess my pen, that I, Pruseic, rather hate your ode to a skylock sort of men. I really am not fond of nature. Mad longing for a decent meal and decent clothing overcame me. There came a blister on my heel. I gave it up, and who can blame me? Then wrote my pulse of nature's heart, which I procured some little cash on, and quickly packed me to depart in search of gilded haunts of fashion, which I might puff at column rates, to please my host and meet my reckoning. Bass is the slave who hesitates when wealth and pleasure both are beckoning. I sought, I found. Among the swells I had my share of small successes, made languid love to languid bells, and penned descriptions of their dresses. Ah, millionaires molestant, how fair you were, how you adored me, how many tender hours we spent, and, oh beloved, how you bored me. April, 1871. It's not that fragmentary bit of my young verse of perfect prism, where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, true humour, kindly cynicism, refracted by the frolic glass of fancy, play with change incessant. June, 1874. Great Caesar, what a sweet young ass I must have been when adolescent. August, 1886. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.