 After many years by Henry Kindle, read for LibriVox.org by Bethany on the 29th of April, 2020. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights allume the brow, as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hour supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and use today. There is a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, oftentimes I used to look upon its banks and longed to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss and dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleam between the wet green rolls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that, past the lordly range, there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its golden green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river and the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear. The song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok. The song that I once dreamed about. The tender touching thing. As radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set. As beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now. The ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones. When evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea. The lyrics of the leaf and stream this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all the way. Like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me. The falls of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range. There always shines in folds of hill one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known. The letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills. I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing. My spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall. Read for LibriVox.org by Cara Donnelly of www.toadworld.co.uk Recorded in 2020. The song that I once dreamed about. The tender touching thing. As radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set. As beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now. The ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights illum the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain. I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones. When evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hour supreme. With songs of land and sea. The lyrics of the leaf and stream this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away. Like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse today. There's a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me the falls of flower and flower like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls the singers far and fair that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines. In folds of hill one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its golden green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known. The letters of two lovely words a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame her tale the flowers keep. The winds that had me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the nights and when the rain the troubled torrent fills I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall read for Libbervox.org by Chad Horner from Ballycler and County Hunter Northern Ireland. Sit jaded in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The song that once I dreamed about the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now the ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten towns. When evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea the lyrics of the leaf and stream this echo comes to me. No longer does the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away like one who halts with tired wings. I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, sometimes I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me. The falls of flowers and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, the gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me refrain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known. The letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She'd need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep, but in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills I often think as I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kindle, read for Limbervox.org by David Lawrence. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, nor ardent lights loom the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echoes still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer did the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like when two halts with tired wings I rest and muse to-day. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and longed to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleam between the green-wet walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that, past the lordly range, there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for a Libri Vox by Dominique van der Vorle. The song that I once dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights illumine the brow, as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echoes still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hour's stream, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal, her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all way, like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of Mars in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and the flower like flowers, are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place, the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender scream that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters, only known the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear, the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender, touching thing, as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights elune the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings. Else I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep, but in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Elizabeth Onder. The song that I once dreamed about, the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music sets as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones, but only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still, that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past, upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and the birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott, Cheltenham, England. GrahamScottAudio.com The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones, but only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea the lyrics of the leaf and stream this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse to-day. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower like floss, are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Jim Gallagher. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights loom the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hour supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal, her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth once was and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah! off times I used to look upon its banks and long, to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flowers and the flower-like floss, are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, they gleam between the wet green walls, are still the marvels there. Ah! let me hope that in that place, the old familiar things, to which I turn a wistful face, have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range, there always shines in folds of hills, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen, it shades a certain nook, remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past, upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name, has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds around the wing, my spirit fancies that can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kindle, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now. The ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echoes still of long forgotten tones. When evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once, and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away. Like one who halts with tired wings, I rest amused today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Often times I used to look upon its banks, along to still the beauty of that brook, and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss and dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower, the flower-like floss, are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls, are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still, that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verse and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night, and when the rain the troubled horn fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near, and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies I can hear the song, I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Patrick Wallace. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now. The ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer does the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where youth was once, and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away. Like one who holds with tired wings, I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook, and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like floss, are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls, are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things, to which I turn a wistful face, have never taken wings. Let me retain the fanciest still that, past the lordly range, there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines made light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name, has been for years asleep. But in the night, and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near, and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear. The song I cannot sing. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights allume the brow, as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill, and sunset fires the cones, but only in the hours supreme, with songs of land and sea. The lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where youth was once, and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, off times I used to look upon as banks, and longed to steal the beauty of that brook, and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dream so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls, are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its golden green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light, the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep. The wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. And a poem this recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox by Peter Yersley. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elume the brow as in the days of old, I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings I rest and muse to-day. There is a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the folds of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair that gleamed between the wet green walls, are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that, past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night, and when the rain the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills, and when the days very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Ragu Pradeep Nair. The song that one side dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music said, as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights elune the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echoes still of long forgotten tones, when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is veering all away, like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse today. There's a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change has never found it out. Ah, oftentimes I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like flaws are as they used to be. I wonder if the water falls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place, the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender scream that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past, upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. End of point, this recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall, read for LibriVox.org by Shakewell. The song that once I dreamed about, the tender touching thing, as radiant as the rose without, the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set, as beautiful as afternoon, remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold. No ardent lights elune the brow as in the days of old. I cannot dream to dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hour supreme, with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away, like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flower and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things, to which I turn a wistful face, have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters only known, the letters of two lovely words, a poem, own a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the pierced verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. And the poem, this recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall read for LibriVox.org by The Directioner. The song that once I dreamed about the tender touching thing as radiant as a rose without the love of wind and wing, the perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now, the ancient fire is cold, no ardent lights ennume the bro as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again, but when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still of long forgotten tones when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires, though cones but only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea. The lyrics of the leaf and stream, this echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal her gracious green and gold, I sit where youth was once and feel the time growing old. The luster from the face of things is varying all the way, like one who holds with tired wings I rest and muse today. There's a river in the range I love to think about, perhaps the searching feet of change have never find it out. Ah, often times I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moose in dreams so dear to me, the falls of flowers and flower-like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Ah, let me hope that in that place the old familiar things to which I turn a vestful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still that past the lordly range there always shines in folds of hill once part square from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its gold and green the glory of the book. It hides secret to the birds and waters only known the letters of two lovely words a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines me light, the purest verses and the last I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers key, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river and the hills and when the day is very near and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies that can hear the song I cannot sing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After many years by Henry Kendall read for LibriVox.org by Kudana. The song that once I dreamed about the tender touching thing as radiant as the rose without the love of wind and wing. The perfect verses to the tune of woodland music set as beautiful as afternoon remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now. The ancient fire is cold. No hardened lights illumined the bro as in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again. But when the happy birds are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echoes still of long forgotten tones when evening winds are on the hill and sunset fires the cones. But only in the hours supreme with songs of land and sea, the lyrics of the leaf and stream. This echo comes to me. No longer did the earth reveal her gracious green and gold. I sit where it was once and feel that I am growing old. The luster from the face of things is wearing all away like one who halts with tired wings. I rest and muse today. There is a river in the range I love to think about. Perhaps the searching feet of change have never found it out. Oh, oftentimes I used to look upon its banks and long to steal the beauty of that brook and put it in a song. I wonder if the slopes of moss in dreams so dear to me the falls of flower and flower like floss are as they used to be. I wonder if the waterfalls, the singers far and fair, that gleamed between the wet green walls are still the marvels there. Oh, let me hope that in the place the old familiar things to which I turn a wistful face have never taken wings. Let me retain the fences still that past the lordly range there always shines in falls of hill, one spot secure from change. I trust that yet the tender screen that shades a certain nook remains with all its golden green, the glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds and waters on the noun, the letters of two lovely words, a poem on a stone. Perhaps the lady of the past upon these lines may light the purest verses and the last that I may ever write. She need not fear a word of blame, her tale the flowers keep, the wind that heard me breathe her name has been for years asleep. But in the night and when the rain, the troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again the river in the hills. And when the day is born here and birds are on the wing, my spirit fancies it can hear the song I cannot sing. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain.