 RAINBOWS Songs that, like rainbows, following after storm, span suddenly with flame-like wings of hope, some silent void of sorrow in my heart, dark with vain prayers and desolating tears, or rising softly in a happy hour, were mirrored like pale colors of the dawn in my glad soul, as in a dancing sea, and born on crest of laughter to the light. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Song to Beauty by Olive Custins. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Sweet, I have seen the Argent moon astray in crimson meadows of the morning sky, watched by the jealous night too sad to fly before the bright, relentless sort of day, so your pale lovers see you pass them by. Proud beauty, like that wonderful gold flower, the twilight gathers when the sun takes flight and lays before the silver feet of night, beauty that seen in dreams has such strange power. Shine, shine upon my darkness lovely light. By what enchantment were you doomed to range the forest of this world where joys are few? My heart is like a hound that follows you. My heart, a princely hunter. Use your strange, elusive laughter and must still pursue. Oh, once my song bird-heart was free and wise, but now its wings are tangled in love's snare. For it is seen the sunshine of your hair, the troubled beauty of your great blue eyes, the wild rose whiteness of your body fare. In vain fate strives to keep us still apart. Death could not do it even, though there be long leagues of land, broad waste of shining sea, between us. Yet my heart is with your heart when in the world of dreams you walk with me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of a fairy princess. The Fairy Prince. One. The Princess at the Gate. By Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org. By Nima. Prince, you are late. The princess watches for you at the gate, looks down the long dull road with eager eyes and whisper softly, Love, I wait, I wait. Prince, is it wise to be so long and coming, for youth flies, and other men pass lightly on their way, and see a pretty princess there whose eyes. And one might say, I am the prince you watch for every day. Pale princess, looking out with eyes like stars, I love you, little princess, let me stay. Under bars, the little princess, grown too sad to play, sits passionately whispering. I wait, oh lover, you are late. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of a fairy princess. The Fairy Prince. Two. The Coming of the Prince. By Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org. By Nima. The princess come, shy princess, oh, be wise, kiss his sweet mouth, look deep into his eyes, and let your songs, like Lute's tired hands, left dumb. Learn all love's language, now the princess come. The princess fair, proud princess, hold him fast, with slim white hands, each kiss may be the last. Boy is a flower, whose petals fall apart, and fade too soon, ah, hold him to your heart. And this sweet prince, who never will grow old, this boy with great blue eyes and hair like gold, will lead you, little princess, by the hand through all the gardens of his fairy land. What though a sleepless dragon day and night, the great world watches, jealous of delight, strong love shall stand with shining wings unfurled between you and the hatred of the world. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of a fairy princess. The Fairy Prince. Three. The Letter. By Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org. By Nima. They lit the fire and fairies came to dance and flying cloaks of flame. They drew the curtain and the day, entered the room, divine and gay, still in a rainbow dawn disguise, with robe of rose and amethyst, and silver hood of morning mist, drawn down to hide her golden eyes. And there was one who came in with her, white-winged, a dainty stranger, a little page from love's own court and lovely news of you he brought. My fairy prince so far away, so far away from fairy land, I find it hard to understand that I shall see your face today. The morning only waits for you to make it perfect. How that blue, unclouded color of the skies reminds me of your great blue eyes. And that red rose-cup full of rain wakes dreams of your dear mouth. And there the light is golden like your hair. O miracle of joy and pain to hold you in my arms again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of a fairy princess. The Fairy Prince. Four. The Song of Welcome by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by Nemo. Quote, while joy runs on through summer greenery, and all delight is like an open door, end quote, Alfred Douglas, you know I love you, for my darkening eyes confess it when our lips and lashes meet. My life is a long listening for your feet, your coming is like sunshine to sad skies, and when I see your face again life seems like the sun-clouded day that leads the hours and fair procession down a path of flowers towards the folded doorways of our dreams. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Songs of a fairy princess. The Fairy Prince. Five. The Song of Forget-Me-Nots by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by Nemo. A Song of Forget-Me-Nots I Sing. Forget-Me-Nots are my favorite flowers, love, because they are like your eyes, blue as the wild blue butterflies. They stare and dream through the singing hours under the turquoise and silver skies under the fickle skies of spring. They see the sky like a looking glass that waits for the beautiful face of day, for the face of the dawn is cold, stare with eyes more yellow than gold when the noon sun sends the clouds away. And at twilight time, with gaze as bold, they watch the pumps of sunset pass. In sleepless under the starlit skies, they listen and look with their petals wide, for though the moon be lost for hours, hidden behind her high cloud towers, a brown bird sings by the river's side. Forget-Me-Nots are my favorite flowers, love, because they are like your eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MASKER RAID by OLLIV CUSTONS Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA Masked dancers in the dance of life, we move sedately, wearily together, afraid to show a sign of inward strife, we hold our souls in tether. We dance with proud and smiling lips, with frank appealing eyes, with shy hands clinging, we sing, and few will question if there slips a sob into our singing. Each has a certain step to learn, our prisoned feet move steadily in set paces, and to and fro we pass, since life is stern, patiently, with masked faces. Yet some there are who will not dance, they sit apart, most sourful and splendid. But all the rest trip on as in a trance, until the dance is ended. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A GIRL'S LOVE by OLLIV CUSTONS Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA My days are different from your days. My life is hedged about as with a hedge of flowers. Always bright as roses, and with thorns as keen. So is my girlhood guarded from the strife, the turmoil, of the world's contending powers. Since shapes and shadow are but dimly seen, by those who in the summer sunlight stand, I can but guess the sordid things and sad that mar the great sweet world and come between all simple human hearts in every land. They came between your heart and mine made glad, because your life is brave and gay and wise, because I love you. Though I know too well, the fickle crowd has told you love is mad, and yet you keep love's laughter in your eyes. Perhaps some day my secret I will tell, or you might guess it, dear, such things have been, some day when our eyes meet and our hands touch. A look, a little word, would break the spell of silence like a sword our hearts between. Meanwhile I dare not love you over much. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Secret by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. I have a secret that I cannot sing, because I'm afraid the wind might hear and stride across the sky to you and fling my secret in your ear. I have a secret that I will not say, because I'm afraid some friend would go and whisper it to you, my love one day, and you would know. I have a secret that I dare not prize, although it laughs away my loneliness. Or if you ever looked into my eyes, ah, you would guess. And you might only pity and disdain the passion that has set you far above those other men who loved me all in vain. Oh, love, my love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dear the Dance by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Good-bye. I shall regret you. To love you, dear, is vain. I never should have met you. Good-bye. And so I must forget you, till you come back again. Good-bye. I say it sadly. You do not understand. Your answer rings so gladly. Good-bye. And yet my heart beats madly, because you take my hand. How near the cold dawn hovers her hooded silver head. Too swiftly she uncovers. Good-bye. Oh, friend, we might be lovers if one brave word were said. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Song by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Sing to me, for your songs drive care away. And fill with delicate dreams the common day. In music is your fettered self-set free. It is the en masse man that speaks to me. Gone is the cold bright glance I know so well. Hushed is the hard, light laughter like a bell. Few would believe your smiling, shallow eyes could swim and burn with such grave mysteries. And few who know your clear, low voice would guess that it could tremble with such tenderness. Even your beauty and your pliant grace, transfigured by the passion in your face, grow dim like lamps at dawn before the whole impulsive revelation of your soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Heart of a Child by Olive Custins. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Why was I given a child's wild heart I am tired of acting a woman's part and the world seemed sordid and dull in course. It was different in the days of play when the soul was brave and the heart was gay, and one rode away to Fairyland on a painted rocking horse. My friend, you will never understand how I dream of those rides to Fairyland, of those long sweet rides in the firelit room, when one started off with a leap and bound, and one steed so quaintly comparisoned to the silvery sound of little bells that twinkled in the gloom. My friend, you are fair and strong and wise, with your sun-gold hair and your brave blue eyes. But why have you stolen my heart today? For it is such a strange and wayward thing, and birds that are caged will not always sing. In a child's heart, what should it know of love? It only cares for play. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE KISS by OLLIV CUSTONS. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. In the grey north I found a flower, more fair than blossoms of the south, the red rose of your mouth. I kissed it in a weary hour, and the sad silver winter day grew straightway warm and gay. Yes, that shy kiss had such strange power, that summer seemed to bend above the laughing face of love. Our radiant future, tower on tower, a phantom city of delight, rose swiftly into sight. From there a smiling fate would shower, her rarous gifts. I dreamed all this in one brief, silent kiss. No garden blossom has for dour such deep, divine, glad dreams as those you gave to me. Red Rose. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE SNOW by OLLIV CUSTONS. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. From sullen skies the frail white snowflakes fall like fairy butterflies. Fall on the pale small snow drops, fall and fall, covering the purple violets, covering all the fair fragile children of the spring. Covering the big warm earth is with a pawl. And then the sun shines out, and the birds sing to see a strange white world like crystal glittering. And my soul that in silence for so long is shuttered at the wounded world's red sins, and sordid griefs and passionate dumb sorrows. Suddenly dreams a shining dream and spins a silver poem, and straight way opens wide the great dim windows of her house of song, and laughs to know her dark despairs have died. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. MELLISOND by OLLIV CUSTONS. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Pale little princess, passionate and shy, with delicate small hands and heavy hair. A simple childlike creature wild and fair, yet shadowed by a haunting mystery. Born too I know not what high destiny, and driven out to darkness and despair, to see at last a love divine and rare, slain by a jealous husband, and to die. How listlessly you turn from love and tears, yet looking in the eyes of death you smiled, and stretched out wistful arms, as though once more your pelleas had entered at the door. And death was kind to you, a weary child. He saved your beauty from the bitter years. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. AFTER RAIN by OLLIV CUSTONS. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. A scent of fresh, wet mold pervades the air. Pale beams of sunset linger everywhere. And cold, white mists around the river rise, up from the low damp meadows to the skies. So fading into dusk, the daylight dies. The wind sighs out its sorrows to the trees. The ashen sky is froth like wintery seas, and not one star swings wide her casement yet, although the wintry sun has long since set, and darkness and her sister's sleep have met. The moon has swathed her silver face and wide, soft webs of wandering cloud she strives to hide, her splendor from the sullen night alas. When will her dreams of summer come to pass? When will the flowers appear among the grass? And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. A Dancing Girl by OLLIV CUSTONS. Red for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Dark daughter of a dancing race, how do you weave your secret spells? Song cannot show with what strange grace you lightly lift your frock of lace, sound thick with little silver bells. You hold us with your haunting eyes, and in your hair so soft and long our souls are snared, yet we are wise. We know you through your dark disguise. You are a witch-girl, weird and strong, a pegging creature with the grace of the lost childhood of the world, and in your pale fantastic face and in your smile we seem to trace the fairy with its bright wings furrowed. A water nymph you may have been, with heavy lilies in your hair, our mermaids swinging in the green, deep sea or dryad stretched unseen among fair leaves and blossoms fair. Now from a lighted stage you glance, smiling, oh sorcerous unknown, and we who watch you in a trance enchanted by your mystic dance forget how sad the world has grown. And a poem, this recording, is in the public domain. A C-Song by Olive Custance, read for LibriVox.org by Neema. A stony shore where green waves curl and break, in opalescent stars of foam and shake, the golden silence with a siren song of strange sea voices, calling all day long, seeming to say, oh mortal, come and sleep. The world is full of tears, its ways are steep. Come down before the future saddens thee, and sleep among the rainbows in the sea. There in the shadow of the cliff I lay, in the soft stillness of an autumn day, listened and dreamed, until the little cares that steal upon the spirit unawares, and all the tangled mysteries of fate, man's love and laughter, tears and hopes and hate, were half forgotten. In those perfect hours the bright sea tossed me blue and silver flowers to play with, and a lark with sudden flight flew sunward, singing loud for my delight. And I became a princess, even I, under my turquoise-colored tent, the sky, my heart to thrill, with wonder and wild glee, and for my lord and lover, the great sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Reminisances by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Just once we met, it seemed so long ago, so long, and yet men would not think it so, who count their time by years. Just once we met, and now we never meet. It is regret I lost a friend so sweet, that stings my heart to tears. I clasped your hand, but scarcely said a word. We stood as children stand, whose souls are stirred. To great shy love they cannot comprehend. I clasped your hand, and looked into your eyes. My spirits spanned, your spirits mysteries, but feared to call you friend. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Retonello by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Against the wide clear windows of your mind, my songs continually rush in beat, like circling swallows in the summer days. And withbound to eyes, for love has made them blind. They sing in darkness of your beauty, sweet, enchant, and shadow your perpetual praise. And yet it is not love that makes them sad, but sorrow, that stands ever by delight, with bruised white blossoms in her weary hands. Olive tells her all his secrets, mad and glad, and she, with languid lips and eyes like night, listens and whispers back and understands. O friend gone far away, my restless songs crave ever for the hour of your return. At hope's dim doors, though silent wings flashed white, and when bright day puts off the earth's crown of wrongs and darkness draws life dreamward, still they yearn towards you and sleeps fairy lands all night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gray Eyes by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. I love to look into your long, sad eyes, those veiled, inscrutable eyes that have revealed your silent soul, grown curiously wise, through strange experience and life's mysteries. Gray eyes whose lids are cunning to conceal, glances that have the glitter of cold steel. Lightly you laugh and jest like other men, but seeing your troubled beauty, eyes surmise, how you have striven, suffered, sinned, and when you are gay, I guess your sorrows even then, because not all your subtle treacheries can hide for me the secrets in your eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The White Witch by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Her body is a dancing joy, a delicate delight, her hair a silver glamour and a net of golden light. Her face is like the faces that a dreamer sometimes meets, a face that Leonardo would have followed through the streets. Her eyelids are like clouds that spread white wings across blue skies, like shadows in still water, are the sorrows in her eyes. How flowerlike are the smiling lips so many have desired? Lips that love's long kisses have left a little tired. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dreamer by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Your heart, an angel out of reach, escapes the world's control. Life cannot trouble with its speech, the trances of your soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lingering Day by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Stepping between the sunset's scarlet wings, the fair day puts aside her proud disguise, and from her wary head she backward flings the hood of sunshine hiding her strange eyes. When smiling softly at the startled west, she stands and watches till the splendor dies, and silver twilight calls the winds to rest, and silence settles at the heart of things. But wherefore should you linger, O bright day, and watch so wistfully and watch so late? The sun is gone, and you have cast away the gifts he gave, the mystic seals of fate. The sword of storm, the heavy crown of care, even tired queen, your golden robes of state, say, is it night with great stars in his hair, or the white maiden moon for whom you wait? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Praise of Love by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Love should be pure and passionate, a thing of flame and flowers frail, elusive, bright, a sudden splendor, a most proud delight. Tender is flowers by day, and fierce is fire by night, a singing wonder ever on the wing, a magical mad mood too sweet to stay. Love is an inspiration which reveals the grace of the beloved to our glad eyes, so we who worship vehemently are wise, since shy strange beauty slips for us her dark disguise, and softly from her secret hiding steals and passion comes to us with laughing lips. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Antinous by Olive Custons, read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. I spoke of you, Antinous, with her who is my heart's delight, the while we watched the dawn of night through veils of dusk diaphanous. I praised your gracious loveliness as in cool marble it appears, your eyes that seem too sad for tears, your smile that is a sheath caress. And I, a free-born singing child, in this dull-sorted age of ours, cried to my friend, O flower of flowers, worship with me, but she smiled. She smiled, and said with soft disdain, his statue cannot see or hear. If you should kneel forever, dear, he would not know you kneel in vain. Yet all night long, O my desire, I watched beside you pale and dumb, and now the silver dawn has come, the sky is stained with scarlet fire. The faint light widens too fair day, round a white statue the birds sing, but you will never wake, my king, the love should kiss your lips away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Silence of Love by Olive Custons Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. The poise of your small head, how proud it seems! How sad your great dark eyes and your mouth's bow has such a petulant disdainful pout, as though it were worried of the ebb and flow, of life within the soul were shapes of dreams, an endless long procession come and go in all the tumult of the world without. Slowly about us the grave dusk is shed, behind us, as we stand the frost-stung fire flames up and fills the room with dancing light. Which is not but in silence I aspire to praise you in a song unsung, unsaid, a dream song faint with sorrow and desire of music made in memory and delight. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Good night by Olive Custons Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. The clock ticks loudly, but the house is still. The wind moans softly in the chimney groove. Loose leaves at rest upon the window sill stir whisperingly, so fairy folk might move. Clouds cover up the moon, the west gleams white. Good night, dear heart, good night. All day there has been darkness in my heart, all day without you. O, the long gray hours, to think how very far we are apart, to think some ways are all set thick with flowers. When our ways went so sad and void of light, good night, dear heart, good night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Love and Death, I. The Victory of Love by Olive Custons Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Beloved, I come to tell you it is spring. The old brown earth puts forth pale buds again, pierced by the silver arrows of the rain, who wounded breasts bleed blossoms, violets cling across your grave, and how the wild birds sing. Life sheathed in sunshine is fate's sort of pain, but beauty beckons to my soul in vain. Since you are dead, what comfort can she bring? O lover, I am striving to forget, but your gay laughter haunts me, and I still hunger to hear your voice, that used to thrill my heart with so much happiness. I fret to hold your hand sometimes, against my will, in spite of my despair. I love you yet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Love and Death, II. The Victory of Death by Olive Custons Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. I am true to you, beloved and only love. Even though others seem to snatch away this wayward heart of mine, and every day finds me still seeking in each stranger's face the face I loved, and if at times I trace a chance resemblance see your mouth or eyes, eyes colored like the clearest April skies, I love you again, beloved and only love. I am true to you, beloved and only love, though you have grown indifferent to me. Since death has led you where I cannot see, if you remember, only guess at this, that you sleep sound or find strange lips to kiss. O, what thought shall be thought or what word said to comfort those who sorrow for the dead? I know you are changed, beloved and only love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Music by Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Within the room a mist of music rising, between my weary soul and the clamorous world, while through the window floats another song of men's devising, from a fountain like a frail pale feather conningly up curled. That sky-pump we call sunset flares slow winding, and long procession through the western gates ajar, with pageant-deplumed purple gonfalins and blinding, proud flash of swords, it leaves us to the twilight and one pale star. And now the music storms with stern persistence, the prison where my secret thoughts are shut apart, the marching melody beats down my tired resistance and enters through the broken doors the citadel of my heart. So my fair friend, unconscious of the magic persuasion of her music wakes a memory, vivid and bitter of a dead dream sweet and tragic, that once one blue and silver springtide seemed possible to me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Perot by Olive Custons. Read for LibriVox.org by NEMA. Perot, Perot. At first they said you slept, and then they told me you would never wake. I dared not think. I watched the white day break. The yellow lamps go out. I have not wept. But now I kiss your dear cold hands and weep, shaken with sobs, I cower beside the bed. At last I realize that you are dead, drawn suddenly into the arms of sleep. Love, you will never look at me again, with those rain-colored heavy lidded eyes, closed now forever. Perot, was it wise to love so madly since we loved in vain? In vain, in vain, but Perot, it was sweet to stem the stealthy hours with wine and song, though death stood up between us stern and strong, and fate twined nets to trip our dancing feet. Too soon alas, too soon our summer swooned, to bitter winter and against the lace of cost-white pillows lay a reckless face, with feverish parched mouths like a red wound. Yet still was our brave love not overthrown, and I would nestle at your side and see your large, sad eyes grow passionate for me. Love, wake and speak, I cannot live alone. Blue as blue flames the great sky above, the earth is wonderful and glad and green, but shut the sunlight out for I have seen forgetfulness upon the face of love. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. April Twilight by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo The skies are gray, the streets are gray. Twilight walks softly through the streets, against the golden veils of day, with wary, silver-gwinged she beats. So every amber veil is rent, and standing here I watch the night, close round the city like a tent, while all the lamps grow bright. What strange, mad things our fancies are, when darkness spreads and life stands still. Each lamppost, with its yellow star, is like a monstrous daffodil. My windows look across a square. I see dark houses through a screen, slender branches, leafless, bare, yet faintly flushed with green. I see the strangers pass and pass, and some are grave, and some are gay. But all seem shadows in a glass, not like the people of the day. They walk between giant daffodils, how endlessly their footsteps beat, how languidly their laughter thrills the silence of this street. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. April by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo Yet last we see the shadows play again, at hide-and-seek, the shadows of the leaves, and swallows build new nest between the eaves. For spring is with us, bringing in her train, flowers and songs, and sudden rustling rain, and golden mornings, when the poet perceives what stealthy shadow nets the sunshine-weaves, striving to catch the singing birds in vain. But who walks sternly, with a wayward spring? Is it white winter, eager still to slay, thwarting our laughter, or their sullen glance? Yet surely, very soon she will take wing, and leave us to the loveliness of May, the south-wing days when all the shadows dance. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Life by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo I play with life on different days, in different moons. Sometimes my wayward spirit strays, in wonderful solitudes. Sometimes I seek the crowded ways of the world's gay multitudes. Sometimes my soul is as fierce and mad as a winter sea. Sometimes my soul is brave and glad, and the hours are good to me. But often enough it is tired and sad. Poor wave of eternity. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Song of Youth by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo I met youth in a garden wild, with roses tangled in her hair. She looked into my eyes and smiled, kiss me, she said, for I am fair. But, laughingly, I went my way, and heeded not the word she said. What was her smile to me that day? Her mischievous, sweet moths so red. I went my way of dreaming eyes, a light of heart I was yet shy. But not too old, and not too wise, to miss the rainbows in the sky. I went my way with dancing feet, for I was slow to learn the truth, that fame and love and song are sweet, but not more thrilling sweet than youth. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To a Playfellow by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo I sing to you a song of spring, for youth and spring go well together. A song of soft and sunny weather, a song of birds upon the wing. Song of green against the blue. This is the wayward song I sing to you. I sing to you a song of hope, for surely hope is youth's first lover, and all his rainbows arch above her, and all his dreams a shining rope of sun and mist of light and dew, are wound about her willing feet, and all his ways are wild and sweet. I sing a song of hope to you. A song of love I sing to you, for youth and love are comrades ever. Oh, laughing comrades, hard to sever. And when you too bright love pursue, be sure he will not miss the chance of leading you a merry dance, or if snares beneath and stars above, I sing to you a song of love. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Swallow Song by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo Since I cannot come to you, and you may not come to me, words must go where I would be and do what I would do. Happy, happy little words, they will touch your fingertips and flutter at your pretty lips, a flock of singing birds. They will see your face all day, steel into your dreams at night, safe beneath your pillow white, while I am far away. Since we are such miles apart, see, I send this swallow song. It is tired, the way was long, take it to your tender heart. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Coming of Dawn by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo Oh, dawn with hair of pallid gold, this is the hour of your delight. Upwaving from the east, your white, tremulous, rose-stained wings of light, beat softly at the gates of night. The air is delicately cold, and see, your spears of sunlight hurled, a thwart, the pale sky's ranks of gray. Cloud confluence drooped fold and fold, so, as flower petals are unfurled and silken silence to the day, you blossom to the waking world. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Rainy Day by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo The spirit of the days there at my window, wild and white, with their large eyes full of light, and the dawn do's in her hair. She has slain the demon night, but it shadows haunt her yet, and she cannot quite forget the black terror of the fight. So her sunshine, like a veil, falls about her dim and pale, and her skies are cold and gray, and her songbirds, where are they? Such a silence broods about her this beautiful, sad day, you would say her mist had curled round the climber of the world. Web of mist as soft as sleep, fallen on the mouse that sang, fallen on the eyes that weep. O dim and weary day, you bring dream and silence wing to wing, and sighing winds and silver rain. I love your dark clouds drifting by in weird, fantastic shapes for hours. I love your wayward thunder showers, your sudden rainbows in the sky. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Girl in the Glass by Olive Custons Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo Girl in the Glass, you smile, and yet your eyes are full of a vague regret. For dreams are lovely, and life is sad, and when you were a child, what dreams you had. Now, over your sole life shadows pass, Girl in the Glass. Girl in the Glass in April Day looks not more tearful, looks not more gay, than your rose-flushed face with a wistful mouth. For your soul seeks love as a swallow flies south, so into your eyes love sorrows pass, Girl in the Glass. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. End of Rainbows by Olive Custons