 A few figs from Thistles. Poems and Sonnets by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Red for LibriVox.org by Melody Courtney. First fig. My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night. But oh, my foes and oh, my friends, it gives a lovely light. Second fig. Safe upon the solid rock, the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand. Recruitio. We were very tired. We were very merry. We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright and smelled like a stable. But we looked into a fire. We leaned across the table. We lay on a hilltop underneath the moon. And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. We were very tired. We were very merry. We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear. From a dozen of each, we had bought somewhere. And the sky went wane, and the wind came cold. And the sun rose dripping, a bucket full of gold. We were very tired. We were very merry. We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, good-morrow, mother, to a shawl-covered head, and bought a morning paper, which neither of us read. And she wept, God bless you, for the apples and the pears. And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. Thursday. And if I loved you Wednesday, well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday, so much is true. And why you come complaining is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday, yes, but what is that to me? To the not-impossible hymn. How shall I know, unless I go, to Cairo or Cathay, whether or not this blessed spot is blessed in every way? Now it may be the flower for me. Is this beneath my nose? How shall I tell, unless I smell, the Carthaginian rose? The fabric of my faithful love, no power shall dim or rattle, whilst I stay here but, oh, my dear, if I should ever travel. Madougal Street. As I went walking up and down to take the evening air, sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy? I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair. Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by. The women squatting on the steps were slovenly and fat. Lay me out in organ-dye, lay me out in lawn. And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat. Lord God in heaven, will it ever be dawn? The fruit carts, the clam carts, were reballed as a fair. Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel. She had haggled from the fruit man of his rotting wear. I shall never get to sleep the way I feel. He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter. Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by? But he caught the faint Italian quip. She flung him from the gutter. What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry? He laid his darling hand upon her little black head. I wish I were a ragged child with earrings in my ears. And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said. Truly I shall be ill, unless I stop these tears. The singing woman from the woods edge. What should I be but a prophet and a liar, whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar, teased on a crucifix, and cradled under water? What should I be but a fiend's god-daughter? And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog that was got beneath the fruze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing? That was christened at an altar, but aves and credos and psalms out of salter? You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, as a pixie mother weaves for her baby. You will find such flame at the waves weedy ebb, as flashes in the meshes of the mere mother's web. But there comes to birth no common spawn for the love of a priest and a leprechaun. And you never have seen, you never will see, such things as the things that swaddle me. After all said and after all's done, what should I be but a harlot and a nun? In through the bushes on foggy days my da would come a swashing of drops away. With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, a mumbling of his beads for all he was worth. And there sit my ma, her knees beneath her chin, a looking in his face and a drinking of it in. And a marking in the moss some funny little saying that would mean just the opposite of all he was praying. He taunt me the holy talk of Vesper and of Matin. He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin. He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, and we watched him out of sight and we conjured up the devil. Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known, what with hedges and ditches till after I was grown. He yanked both ways by mother and by father. With a which would you better and a which would you rather? With him for a sire and her for a dam. What should I be but just what I am? She is overheard singing. Oh, Prue, she has a patient man and Joan a gentle lover and Agatha's arth is a hug of the earth, but my true loves a rover. Mig, her man's as good as cheese and honest as a briar. She tells her love what he's thinking of, but my dear lads, a liar. Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha are thick with mig and Joan. They bite their threads and shake their heads and gnaw my name like a bone. Prue says, mine's a patient man as never snaps me up and Agatha's arth, a hug the earth, could live content in a cup. Sue's man's mind is like good gel, all one color and clear, and mig's no call to think at all what's to come next year. While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad that's troubled with that and this, but they all would give the life they live for a look from the man I kiss. Cold he slants his eyes about and few enough's his choice, though he slipped me clean for a nun or a queen or a beggar with knots in her voice. And Agatha will turn awake when her good man sleeps sound, and mig and Sue and Joan and Prue will hear the clock strike round. For Prue has a patient man as ask not when or why, and mig and Sue have not to do but peep who passes by. Joan is paired with a putterer that base and tastes and salts, and Agatha's arth is a hug the earth, but my true love is false. The prisoner. All right, go ahead, what's in the name? I guess I'll be locked in two as much as I'm locked out of. The unexplorer. There was a road ran past our house, too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once, she said, that if you follow where it led, it brought you to the milkman's door. That's why I have not traveled more. Grown up. Was it for this I uttered prayers and sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs? That now domestic as a plate, I should retire at half past eight? The penitent. I had a little sorrow, born of a little sin. I found a room, all damp with gloom, and shut us all within. And little sorrow weep, I said, and little sin pray God to die, and eye upon the floor will lie and think how bad I've been. Alas for pious planning, it mattered not a whit. As far as gloom went in that room, the lamp might have been lit. My little sorrow would not weep. My little sin wouldn't go to sleep. To save my soul I could not keep, my graceless mind on it. So up I got an anger, and took a book I had, and put a ribbon in my hair to please a passing lad. And one thing there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, said I. But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad. Daphne. Why do you follow me? Any moment I can be, nothing but a laurel tree. Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place, a pink bow for your embrace. Yet if over hill and hollow, still it is your will to follow, I am off to heal Apollo. Portrait by a neighbor. Before she has her floor swept or her dishes done, any day you'll find her a sunning in the sun. It's long after midnight her keys in the lock, and you'll never see her chimney smoke till past ten o'clock. She digs in her garden with a shovel and a spoon. She weeds her lazy lettuce by the light of the moon. She walks up the walk like a woman in a dream. She forgets to borrow butter and pays you back, cream. Her lawn looks like a meadow, and if she mows the place, she leaves the clover standing and the queen Anne's lace. Midnight oil. Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, each day to half its length, my friend. The years that time takes off my life, he'll take from the other end. The merry maid. Oh, I am grown so free from care since my heart broke. I set my throat against the air and laugh at simple folk. There's little kind and little fair is worth its weight in smoke, to me that's grown so free from care since my heart's broke. Alas, if to sleep you would repair, as peaceful as you woke, best not besiege your lover there for just the words he spoke. To me that's grown so free from care since my heart's broke. To Kathleen. Still must the poet as of old and barren attic bleak and cold star freeze and fashion verses too, such things as flower song and you. Still as the old his being give in beauty's name while she may live. See that may not die as long as there are flowers, you, and song. To S.M. if he should lie a-dying. I am not willing, you should go, into the earth where Helen went. She is awake by now, I know. Where Cleopatra's anklets rust, you will not lie with my consent. And Saphro is a roving dust. Presid could love again, ditto. Brought it in state is restless still, you leave me much against my will. The Philosopher. And what are you that, wanting you, I should be kept awake as many nights as there are days with weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you as many days as crawl, I should be listening to the wind and looking at the wall? I know a man's that's a braver man and twenty men as kind. And what are you that you should be the one man on my mind? Yet women's ways are witless ways, as any sage will tell. And what am I that I should love so wisely and so well? Four Sonnets. Number one. Love though for this you riddle me with darts, Love though for this you riddle me with darts, And drag me at your chariot till I die, O heavy prince, O panderer of hearts. Yet hear me tell how in thy throats they lie, Who shout you mighty thick about my hair, Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr, You still am free unto thy quarrelous care, A fool and in no temple worshipper. I that have bared me to your quivers fire, Lifted my face into its puny reign, Do wrath you impotent to invoke desire, As you are powerless to explicit pain. Now will the God for blasphemy so brave Punish me surely with the shaft I crave? Number two. I think I should have loved you presently, I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung ingest, And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast, And all my pretty follies flung aside, That won you to me and beneath your gaze, Make it a reticence and shone of pride, Spread like a cart my little wicked ways. I that had been you had you remained. But no more waking from a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gain, And walk your memory's halls a steer supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew, Who would have loved you in a day or two. Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow, Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow, Faithless am I saved to love's self alone, Where you not lonely I would leave you now After the feet of beauty fly my own, Were you not still my hunger's rarest food, And water ever to my wildest thirst, I would desert you, think not but I would, And seek another as I sought you first, But you are mobile as a veering air, And all your charms more changeful than the tide, Wherefore to be inconsistent is no care. I have but no continue at your side, So wanton, light, and false my love are you. I am most faithless when I most am true. Number four. I shall forget you presently, my dear. I shall forget you presently, my dear. So make the most of this your little day, Your little month, your little half a year. Here I forgot, or die, or move away, And we are done forever by and by. I shall forget you as I said, but now. If you entreat me with your loveless lie, I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would intend that love were longer lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are. But so it is, and nature has contrived, To struggle on without a break thus far. Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll. Read for LibriVox.org by Maya Devinis. The Hunting of the Snark. An agony in eight fits. Preface. If, and a thing is widely possible, The child of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, It would be based, I feel convinced, On the line, on page four. Then the boughs would get mixed with the rudder sometimes. In view of this painful possibility, I will not, as I might, Appeal indignantly to my other writings, As a proof that I am incapable of such a deed. I will not, as I might, Point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, To the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, Or to its noble teachings in natural history. I will take the more precise course of simply explaining how it happened. The bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, Used to have the boughs split unshipped once, twice a week to be revarnished. And it more than once happened. When the time came for replacing it, And that no one on board could remember Which end of the sheet belonged to, They knew it was not of the slightest use To appeal to a bellman about it. He would only refer to his naval code, And read out in pathetic tones And morality instructions, Which none of them had ever been able to understand. So it generally ended in sping fast and on, Anyhow, across the water. The helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes. He knew it was all wrong, But alas, rule 42 was of code, No one shall speak to the man of the helm, Had been completed by the bellman himself With a word, And the man of the helm shall speak to no one. So remonstrance was impossible, And no steering could be done Till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals, The ship usually sailed backwards. As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the jubbler walk, Now let me take this opportunity of answering a question That has often been asked to me. How to pronounce Sly the toes, The eye in slyly is long, As in rye, and the toes Is pronounced such as to rhyme with groves. Again, the first o in borough goes Is pronounced like the o in borough. I have heard people try to give it a sound Of the o in worry, Such as human perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem. Humped up the theory of two meanings packed into one word like a proclamantle Seems to me the right explanation for all. For instance, Take a tool with fuming and furious. Take up your mind that you will say Both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards Fuming, you will say, Fuming furious. If they turn by even a hair spread Towards furious, you will say, Furious fuming. But if you have the rarest of gifts, But perfectly balanced mind, you will say Furious. Supposing that when pistol uttered well known words, Or the witch-king bisonion, Speak or die, Dusty's shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard But had not been able to set a witch so that he could not possibly say either name Before the other. Can it be doubted that rather than die He would have gasped out, real soon fit the first for landing. Where's the place for a snark? The bare man cried as he landed his crew with care, Supporting each man on the top of the tack by a finger and twine in his hair. Just a place for a snark? I have said it twice That alone shouldn't encourage the crew. Just a place for a snark? I have said it twice. What I'll tell you three times is true. As the crew was complete, it included a goose, a maker of bothersome foods, A barrister, a roto ram and his pews, And a broker to value their goods. A billet marker whose skill was immense Might perhaps have owned more than his share, But a banker engaged at enormous expense, Had a hole in their cash in his care. There was also a beaver that paced on the deck, Or would sit making lace in a bow. And had often, the bare man said, saling from wreck, Though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things he forgot When he entered the ship. His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, And the clothes he had bought for the trip. He had 42 boxes, all carefully packed, With his name painted clearly on each. But since he omitted to mention the fact, They were all left behind on the beach. The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, Because he had seven clothes on when he came, With three pair of boots. And by the worst of it was, He had wholly forgotten his name. He would answer to high, or to any loud cry, Such as, fry me, or fit my wig, To wish me calm, or what was his name? But especially, think I'm a jig. Well, for those who prefer the more forcible word, He had different names from me. His intimate friends called him candelands, And his enemy toasted cheese. His form is ungainly, his intellect small, So the bare man would often remark, But his cottage is perfect. And that after rock, is the thing that were needs with the snark. He would joke with hyenas, returning this tale, With an impudent wag of a head. And he once went to walk, pawing paw with a bear, Just to keep up with spirits, he said. He came as a baker, but owned when too late, And he drove the poor bearman half-man. He could only make bright cake, for which I may state, No materials were to be had. The last of the crew made a special remark, Though he looked an incredible dance. He had just one idea, but not one being snark, The good bearman engaged him at once. He came as a butcher, but gravely declared, Whether ship had been sailing weak. He could only kill beavers. Bearman looked scared, and was almost too frightened to speak, But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone, There was only one beaver on board, And that was a dang one he out of his own, Whose death would be deeply deplored. The beaver, who happened to hear the remark, Protested with tears in its eyes, Had not even the rapture of hunting the snark, Could atone for that dismal surprise. It strongly advised, that the butcher should be conveyed in a separate ship, That the bearman declared that he would never agree, With the plans he had made for the trip. The navigation was always a difficult art, Though with only one ship and one bell, And he feared he must really decline For his part on taking another as well. The beaver's best course was no doubt, To procure a second-hand dagger-proof Coat, so they could advise it, And next to ensure its life in some office of note. This, the banker suggested, And offered for hire, on moderate terms, Or for sale, to excellent policies, One against fire, and one against damage from hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, Whenever the butcher was by, The beaver kept looking the opposite way, And appeared on account of his shy. For the second, the bearman's speech, The bearman himself, they all praised to the sky, Such a courage, such ease, and such grace, Such solemnity too, one could see he was wise, The moment when looked in his face. He had bought a large map, Representing the sea, without the least a vestige of land, And the crew were much pleased, when they found it to be, A map they could all understand. What's the good of marricades, North poles, and equatres, Tropic zones, and Meridian lines? So the bearmen would cry, And the crew would reply, They are merely conventional signs. All the maps are such shapes, With irons and capes, But we've got our brave captain to thank. So the crew would protest, That he's bought us the best, A perfect and absolute blank. This was charming, no doubt, But they shortly found out, That a captain they trusted so well, Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, And that was the signal his bear. He was thoughtful and gray, But the orders he gave, Were enough to bewilder the crew. When he cried, Steer the sable, but keep a head labelled, What a mirth was a helmsman to do! Then the bow sprit got mixed with the rudder some time. A thing the bearmen remarked, That frequently happens in tropical clims When a vessel is, so to speak, snucked. But the principal failing occurred in a sailing, And the bearmen perplexed and distressed, Said he had hoped, at least, Where the wind glued you east, That the ship would not travel to west. But the danger was past, They had learned at last, With their boxes full of metals and bags. Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, Which consisted of chasms and cries. The bearmen perceived that their spirits were low, And repeated in musical tone, Some jokes he had kept for a season of wool. But the crew would have nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand, And made them sit down on the beach, And they could not bend on that they had gotten to ground, As his children lived their speech. Friends, Romans and Countrymen, lend me your ears! There were all of them found of quotations, So they drank to his health, And they gave him sweet cheers, While he served out additional rations. We have sailed many months, We have sailed many weeks, Four weeks to the month, you may mark, But never as yet, to your captain who speaks, How we call the least glimpse of a snark. We have sailed many weeks, We have sailed many days, Seven days to the week had allowed. But the snark, under which we might lovingly gaze, We have never been held to now. Come listen, my men, while I tell you again, The five are mistakeable marks, By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine snarks. Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, which is meager and hollow, But crisp, like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of willow the wisp. It's habit of getting up late, you'll agree, That it carries too far, when I say, That it frequently breakfasts at five o'clock tea, And dies on the following day. The third is its slowest intake in the chest, Should you happen to venture on one, It will sigh like a thing that is deep in its chest, And it always looks grey that a pun. The fourth is its fowness, for bathing machines, Which is utterly carried about, And believes that they are to the beauty of scenes, Must sentiment over to doubt. The fifth is ambition. It next will be right to describe each particular batch, And distinguishing those that have feathers in bite, And those that have whiskers in scratch, For although comes the knocks to no manner of harm, Yet I feel it my duty to say, Some are bootumes, with bell-man and brook-offing alarm, For the baker has faded away. Fit the third, for the baker's tale. They rise him with muffins, they rise him with eyes, They rise him with mustard and crests, They round him with jam and judicious advance, They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, He said story he offered to tell, Then the bell-man cried silence, not even shriek, And excitedly teeming on his bill. Then he was silenced free, not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a heart would grow, As a man they called home, told his story of home, In an empty delirium town. My father and mother were honest, but poor, Skip all that, cried the bell-man in haste, If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a snark, With hardly a minute to waste. I skip forty years, said the baker, Tear, and proceed without further remark. To the day you took me aboard of your ship, To help you in hunting a snark. A dear uncle of mine, after whom I was named, Remarked when I bade him farewell. I'll skip your dear uncle, bell-man exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell. He remarked to me then, said that mildest of men, Do snark be a snark, that is right, As at home by all means, you may serve it with greens, And it's handy for striking the light, You may seek it with symbols, and seek it with care, You may hunt with forks in hope, You may threaten its life with a railway share, You may charm it with smiles and so on. That's exactly the method, bell-man bowled, In a hasty parenthesis cry. That's exactly the way I have always been told, That a gutter of snark shall be tried. Hello, memish nephew, beware of the day, Be your snark, be your budger. For then you will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with a guess. It is this, it is this, that all presses my soul, What I think of my uncle's last one, And my heart, like nothing so much as a bowl, Rimming over with quivering curds. It is this, it is this, we have had it before, The bell-man indistinctly said, and the baker replied, Let me say it once more, it is this, it is this, That I drape and gait with a snark every night after dark, In a dreamy, delirious fight. I serve it with greens in those shadowy seeds, And I use it to strike a malign. But if ever I meet with a butcher, That day, in a moment, they say I'm sure, I shall softly and suddenly vanish away, And the notion I cannot endure. Hit the fool, the hunting, the bell-man looked a fish, And wrinkled his brow. Only it's spoken before, it's excessively awkward to mention it now, With a snark so to speak of a door. We should all of this grieve, as you well may believe, If you never will meet with it again, But surely my man, when the boyish began, You might have suggested it then. It's excessively awkward to mention it now, But I think I've already remarked. And the man, a cold high, replied with a sigh, I informed you the day we embarked. You may charred me with murder, or want of sense, We are all of a sweet time. But the slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my cries. I said it in Hebrew, I said it in Dutch, I said it in German and Greek, But holy forgot, it infected me much, But English is what you speak. He is a pitiful tale, said the bell man, Whose face has grown longer at every word. But now that you've stayed in the whole of your case, More debate will be simply absurd. The rest of my speech, he explained to his man, We shall hear when I have later to speak it. But a snark is at hand, let me tell you again, It is your glorious duty to seek it, To seek the thimbles, to seek it with care, To pursue it with focus and hope, To threaten its life with the well-wish air, To charm it with smiles and sump. For the snarks of a peculiar creature, That will be caught in a commonplace way, Do all that you know, and try all that you don't, Another chance must be wasted today. Or even expect, I forbear to proceed, But it makes him tremendous and betrite, And you'd best be unpacking the thing that you need, To rig yourself out for the fight. Then the banker endorsed a blank take, Which he crossed, and changed his loose silver for nose. A baker with care, comes his whiskers and hair, And shook the dust out of his coats. The boots and the broker were shappening the spade, Itch working the grindstone in turn. But the beaver went on making laces, And displayed no interest in the concern. Though the barrister tried to appeal to its pride, And then he proceeded to cite, A number of cases in which making laces Had been proved an infringement of right. The maker of bullets, he cautiously panned Another arrangement of both, While the billet marker with quivering hands Was choking the tip of his nose. But the butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine, With yellow kid's loaves and a ruff, Said he felt exactly like going to die, Which the bellman declared was all stushed. Introduce me, now as a good fellow, he said, If we happen to meet it together. And the bellman, so graciously nodding his head, said, Knows no dependent weather. The beaver went simply go long to think about, But seeing the butcher so shy, And even the baker, though stupid and stout, Made an effort to wink with one eye. BAM! said the bellman, rough, As he heard the butcher beginning to sob. Should he meet with a chopped up, That desperate bird, Which hardly asked him to fill the job. If it didn't, he would have to go to bed, Fit the fifth, the beaver's lesson. They sold it with symbols, they sold it with care, They pursued it with faults and hope, They threatened its life with a railway shell, They charmed it with smiles. Then the butcher contrived an ingenious plan For making a separate sally, And had fixed on a spot unfequented by man, A dismal and desolate sally. But the very same plan to the beaver occurred, It had chosen the very same place. Yet neither betrayed by a sign or a word, The disgust that appeared in his face. He thought he was thinking of nothing but snark, And the glorious work of a death, And each tried to pretend that he did not remark, That the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrow still, And the evening got darker and colder, Till nearly from nervousness, not from goodwill, They marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, Ran the shattering sky, And they knew that some danger was near. The beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far, far behind, That blissful and insincere state, The sound so exactly recalled to his mind, The pencil that squeaks on a slide, Disappoints of a juncture, he suddenly cried, This man that he used to call dance, That the bear man would tell you, He added with pride, I have uttered that sentiment once. Tis the note of the dub dub, Keep count I entreat, You will fine have told it you twice. Tis the song of the dub dub, The proof is complete, If only I've stated it twice. The beaver had counted with scrupulous care, Attending to every word. But it fairly lost heart, And I would grave in despair, When the third repetition occurred, It felt that in spite of all possible pains, It had somehow contrived to lose count, And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains By reckoning up the amount. Two added to one, That could by be done, it said, With one's fingers and thumbs, Recollecting with tears how in the earlier years It had taken no pains with its sounds. The thing can be done, said the butcher, I think. The thing must be done, I'm sure. The thing shan't be done, Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure. The beaver wrote paper, Portfolio, pant and ink, and unfailing supplies, Whilst strange, creepy creatures came out of their dance And watched them with wandering eyes. So engrossed were the butcher in heeding them nut, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the beaver could well understand. Taking three on the subject to reason about, A convenient number to state, We add seven and ten and then multiply out By one thousand diminished by eight. The result will proceed to defile, as you see, By nine hundred and ninety and two. Then subtract seventeen and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true. The method implied I would gladly explain While I had it so clear in my head. If I had by the time and you had by the brain, That much there remains to be said. In one moment I have seen what has here to be An inventing absolute mystery, And that extra charge I will give you at last, A lesson in natural history. In his junior way, he proceeded to say, Forgetting all those of propriety, And that giving instruction without introduction Would have caused quite a thrill in society. I asked the term by the chapter of the desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual fashion. It stays in those tombs entirely absurd, With its ages ahead of the fashion. But know that if Freud has meant once before, It never will look at a bribe. And in charity meetings it stands at the door, And collects, though it doesn't subscribe. Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far, Than mutton or oysters or eggs. Something it keeps best in an ivory charm, And some in mahogany kegs. You write in silver to salt and glue, You condense it with locus and tape, Still keeping one principal object in view, To preserve its symmetrical shape. A butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt nevertheless must end, And he worked with delight in attempting to say He considered the beaver his friend. While the beaver confessed with affectionate looks, More eloquent even than tears, It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books Would have taught it in seventy years. They returned hand in hand, And the bellman announced for a moment, With noble emotion, Said this amply repays all the worrisome days We have spent on the billowy ocean. Such friends as the beaver in Butcher became, Have seldom if ever been known. In winter a summit was always the same, You could never meet either alone. And when the cobbles rose, As one frequently finds quals wills, Spite of every endeavor, The song as a doctor recurred to their minds, And cemented their friendship forever. Fit the sixth, the barristers dream. They sewed it with thimbles, They sewed it with care, They pursued it with force and hope, They threatened its life with the rare we share, The charm of the smiles and silk. But the barrister, weary of proving lame, That the beaver's lace-making was wrong, Fell asleep, and in dreams, Saw the creature quite plain, That his fancy had welled on so long, He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy court, With a snark, with a glass in its eye, Dressed in gaunt bells and wigs, Was defending a pig, On the charge of deserting its time, The witnesses proved, without error or flaw, That a style was deserted when found, And the judge kept expanding the state of the law, In a soft on the current of sound. The indictment had never been clearly expressed, And it seemed that a snark had begun, And had spooked three hours before anyone guessed, What the pig was supposed to have done. The jury had each formed a different view, Long before the indictment was read, And they all spook at once, So that none of them knew one word that the others had said. You must know, said the judge, But the snark is claimed fat, The state it is obsolete quite. Let me tell you, my friends, The whole question depends on an ancient minority on right. In the matter of trees, The pig would appear to have aided, But scarcely abetted, While the charge of insolvency fails is clear, If you wear the plea, never indebted. The fact of desertion I will not dispute, But its guilt, as I trust, is removed, So far as relates to the cost of this suit, By the alibi in which has been proved. My poor client's fate now depends on your votes. Near the speaker sat down in his place, And directed the judge to refer to his notes, And briefly to some of the case. But the judge said he never had sung that before, So the snark undertook it instead, And sang it so well that it came to far more Than the witnesses ever had said. When the verdict was called for, The jury declined as the world was so puzzling to spell, But they ventured to hope that the snark Put a mind on taking that duty as well. So the snark found the verdict, Although, as it owned, it was spent with the trial of the day. When it said the word guilty, The jury all groaned, some of them fainting away. Then the snark pronounced sentence, The judge being quiet too nervous to utter a word. When it rose to its feet, They were silenced like night, And the fall of a bin might be heard. Transportation for life was the sentence it gave, And then, to be fined, forty pound. The jury all teared, though with the judge's fear, That the phrase would not legally sound. But the world exaltation was suddenly checked When the jailer informed them with tears, Such a sentence would have another slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years. The judge let a call, looking deep disgusted. But the snark, though little aghast, As the lawyer to whom the defense was entrusted, Went billowing on to the last. First the barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed, To grow every moment more clear, Till he walked to the now of a furious bell, With the bellman wearing clothes at his ear. Fifth the seventh, the banker's fate. The sordid thimbles, the sordid with care, They pursued it with force and hope, A pet in its life with a well-wished hand, That shone with a smile and soap. And the banker, inspired with a courage so new, It was matter for January Mark, Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view, And his zeal to discover the snark. But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, The bounder snatched swiftly to the night, And grabbed the banker, who shrieked in despair, For he knew it was useless to fly. He offered large discount, he offered a check, Drowned to bear, for seven pounds ten. But the bounder snatched merely extended his neck, And grabbed the banker again. Without rest or pose, while those furious joes Went savagely snapping around, He skipped any hop, then he flouted and flopped, Till fainting he fell to the ground. The bounder snatched flat, and the others appeared, Led on by that fiercest gnale. And the bellman remarked, That his duster life feared, And solemnly told on his bell, He was black in the face, And his scarcely could trace, The least likeness to what he had been. While so great was his fright, At his waistcoat turned white, A wonderful thing to be seen. To the horror of all who were present that day, He uproads in full evening dress, And with senseless cremations endeavour to say, What his tongue could no longer express. Down his sank in a chair, Run his hands through his hair, And chanted the nimziest tone. Roads whose utter unanimity proved his insanity, While he rattled a couple of bones. Leaving here to his fate, It is getting so late, The bellman is claiming a fright, We have lost our day, Any further delay, And we shan't catch a snack before night. Fifty-eight. The vanishing, The soldier of symbols, The soldier of the care, The pursuit we fought in hope, That threatened his life with a relish hair, The charm which he smiled and said, This shuttered to think that a chase might fail, And the beaver excited at last, When bounding along the tip of its tail, For the daylight was nearly past. There is thinker Bob shouting, The bellman said, He's shouting like mad, only hark, He's waving his hands, he's wagging his head, He has certainly found a snark. The gaze in the light, While the butcher exclaimed, He was always a desperate wag, But they beheld him, their baker, Their hero unnamed, On the top of a neighbouring crack. You wrecked and sublime, For one moment of time, In the next, That wild figure they saw, As he stung by a spasm, Turned into a chasm, While they waited and listened in awe. He's a snark, While the sound of first came to their ears, And seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed the torrent of laughter and tears, Then the ominous words, It's a boo, Then silence, Some fancy they heard in the air, A weary and wandering sigh, But the sound alike jumped, But the others declared, It was only a breeze that went back. They hunted till darkness came on, But they found not a button, Or feather, or mark, By which they could tell, That they stood on the ground, Where the baker had met with a snark. In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away, For the snark was a bourgeon in sea, And that the hunting of a snark Is recording in the pub in the May. In Tyrum, by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Read for LibriVox.org by Gail Cato. The room is full of you, As I came in and closed the door behind me, All at once a something in the air, Intangible, yet stiff with meaning, Struck my senses sick. Sharp unfamiliar odours have destroyed Each other room's dear personality, The heavy scent of damp funeral flowers, The very essence hushed distilled of death Has strangled that habitual breath of home Whose expiration leaves all houses dead. And wherece where I look is hideous change, Save here. Here it was if a weed-choked gate Had openeded my touch, And I had stepped into some long-forgot And chanted strange sweet garden of a thousand years ago, And suddenly thought, I have been here before. You are not here, I know that you are gone, And will not ever enter here again, And yet it seems to me, if I should speak, Your silent stab must wake across the hall, If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes Would kiss me from the door. So short a time to teach my life, It's transpositioned to this difficult and unaccustomed key. The room is as you left it, Your last touch a thoughtless pressure, Knowing not itself as saintly, Hallows now, each simple thing, Hallows and glorifies and glows Between the dust's gray fingers like a shielded light. There is your book, just as you laid it down, Face to the table, I cannot believe that you are gone. Just then it seemed to me, you must be here. I almost laughed to think how like reality the dream had been. Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still. That book outspread, just as you laid it down. Perhaps you thought, I wonder what comes next, And whether this or this will be the end. So rose and left it, thinking to return. Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed out of the room, Rocked silently a while, aired again was still. When you were gone forever from the room, Perhaps that chair stirred by your movement. Rocked a little while, silently, to and fro. And here are the last words your fingers wrote, Scrawled in broad characters across the page, In this brown book I gave you. Hear your hands, guiding your rapid pen, Moved up and down. Here with a looping knot you crossed a T, And here another like it, just beyond these two eccentric ease. You were so small, and wrote so brave a hand. How strange it seems, that of all words, These are the words you chose. And yet a simple choice. You did not know you would not write again, If you had known. But then it does not matter. And indeed, if you had known there was so little time, You would have dropped your pen, and come to me, And this page would be empty, And some praise other than this would hold my wonder now. Yet, since you could not know, And it befell, that these are the last words your fingers wrote. There is a dignity some might not see in this. I picked the first sweet pea today. Today, wither an opening bud beside it, you left until tomorrow. Oh, my love, the things that withered, and you came not back. That day you filled the circle of my arms, and now is empty. Oh, my empty life. That day, that day you picked the first sweet pea, And brought it in to show me. I recall, with terrible distinctness, How the smell of your cool gardens drifted in with you. I know, you held it up for me to see, and flushed because I looked not at the flower, but at your face. And when behind my look you saw such unmistakable intent. You laughed, and brushed your flower against my lips. You were the fairest thing God ever made, I think. And then your hands above my heart drew down its stem into a fastening. And while your head was bent, I kissed your hair. I wonder if you knew, beloved hands, Somehow I cannot seem to see them still. Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust in your bright hair. What is the need of heaven when earth can be so sweet, If only God had let us love, and show the world the way? Strange cancelings must ink the eternal books, When love crossed out will bring the answer right. That first sweet pea, I wonder where it is. It seems to me I laid it down somewhere, and yet I am not sure. I am not sure even if it was white or pink, For then it was much like any other flower to me, Save that it was the first. I did not know, then, that it was the last, if I had known. But then it does not matter. Strange, how few, after all said and done the things that are of moment. Few indeed, when I could make of ten small words a rope to hang the world, I had you. And I have you now. No more. There. There it dangles. Worse a little truth that can for long keep butting under that, When it slacks syllables tightened to a thought. Here, let me write it down. I wish to see just how a thing like that will look on paper. I had you, and I have you now. No more. Oh, little words, how can you run so straight across the page, Beneath the weight you bear? How can you fall apart, whom such a theme has bound together, And hereafter aid in trivial expression That have been so hideously dignified? Would God, that tearing you apart would tear the thread I strung you on? Would God, oh God, my mind stretches asunder on this merciless rack of imagery? Oh, let me sleep a while. Would I could sleep and wake to find you back, And that sweet summer afternoon with you? Summer, to summer steal by the calendar. How easily could God, if he so willed, set back the world a little turn or two, Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again? We were so holy one. I had not thought that we could die apart. I had not thought that I could move, And you be stiff and still, that I could speak, And you perforce be dumb. I think our heartstrings were, like warp and wolf, In some firm fabric, woven in and out, Your golden filaments in fair design, across my duller fiber. And today, that shining strip is rent. The exquisite fine pattern is destroyed. Part of your heart aches in my breast, Part of my heart lies chilled in the damp earth with you. I have been torn in two, and suffer for the rest of me. What is my life to me? And what am I to life? A ship whose star has guttered out? A fear that in the deep night starts awake, Perpetually, to find its senses strained Against the taut strings of the quivering air, Awaiting the return of some dread-cord. Dark. Dark is all I find for metaphor. All else for contrast, save that contrast's wall is down, And all opposed things flowed together Into a vast monotony, where night and day, And frost and thaw, and death and life are synonyms. What now? What now to me are all the jabbering birds, And foolish flowers that clutter up the world? You were my song. Now, now let discord scream, You were my flower. Now let the world grow weeds, For I shall not plant things above your grave, The common balm of the conventional woe for its own wound. Amid sensations rendered negative by your elimination, Stands today certain, unmixed, the element of grief. I sorrow, and I shall not mock my truth with travesties of suffering, Nor seek to effigy its incorporeal bulk, And little rye-faced images of woe. I cannot call you back, And I desire no utterance of my immaterial voice. I cannot even turn my face this way, Or that, and say, my face is turned to you. I know not where you are. I do not know if heaven hold you, Or if earth transmute body and soul, You into earth again. But this, I know, not for one second space Shall I insult my sight with visionings, Such as the credulous crowd, So eager-eyed beholds, Self conjured in the empty air. Let the world wail, Let drip its easy tears. My sorrow shall be dumb. What do I say? God? God? God pity me. Am I God mad that I should spit upon a rosary? Am I become so shrunken? Would God I too might feel that frenzied face, Whose touch makes temporal the most enduring grief, Though it must walk a while as its warrant With the wild lamenting? Would I too might weep where weeps the world, And hangs its piteous wreaths for its new dead? Not truth, but faith. It is that that keeps the world alive. If all at once faith were to slacken, That unconscious faith, Which must, I know yet, be the cornerstone of all believing, Birds now flying fearless across, Would drop in terror to the earth. Fishes would drown, And the all-governing rains would tangle In the frantic hands of God, And the world galloped headlong to destruction. Oh God, I see it now, At my sick-brained staggers and swooms, How often over me flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight, In which I see the universe unrolled before me, Like a scroll and read thereon chaos and doom, Where helpless planets whirl, Dizzily, round and round, Round and round like tops across a table, Gathering speed with every spin, To waver on the edge one instant looking over, And the next to shutter and lurch forward out of sight. Ah, I am worn out. I am wearied out. It is too much. I am but flesh and blood, And I must sleep, though you were dead again. I am but flesh and blood, and I must sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines composed a few miles above Tinton Abbey, by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by John Doyle. Five years have passed. Five summers, with the length of five long winters. And again I hear these waters Rolling from their mountain springs, With a soft inland murmur once again. Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs That on a wild secluded scene impress, Thoughts of more deep seclusion, And connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky? The day has come, when I again repose, Here, under this dark sycamore, And view these plots of cottage ground, These awkward tufts, which at this season, With their unripe fruits are clad In one green hue, and lose themselves, Midgroves, corpses. Once again I see these hedgy rows, Hardly hedgy rows, little lines of sportive wood run wild. These pastoral farms green to the very door, And wreaths of smoke sent up in silence. From among the trees, with some uncertain notice, As might seem, of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, whereby his fire, The hermit sits alone. These buttress forms, through a long absence, Have not been to me, as is a landscape To a blind man's eye. But oft, in lonely rooms, And mid the din of towns and cities, I have owned to them. In hours of weariness, sensation's sweet Vout in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration, feelings too, Of unremembered pleasures, such perhaps have No slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love, Nor less I trust. To them I may have owed another gift Of aspect more sublime, That blessed mood, in which the person of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world is lightened, That serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood almost suspended, We are laid asleep, in body and becoming a living soul. While with an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, And the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. If this peep had a vain belief yet, Oh, how often darkness will emit the many shapes of joyless daylight, When the fretful stirer unprofitable, And the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart. How often, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan way, thou wandering through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee, Now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of my mind revives again, Where here I stand, not only with the sense of present pleasures, But with pleasing thoughts, That in this moment there is life and food for future years. And so I dare to hope, Though change no doubt from what I was when first I came among these hills. When, like a row, I bounded over the mountains, By the sides over the deep rivers and the lonely streams, Where ever nature led, more like a man, Flying from something that he dreads, Than one who sought the thing he loved, for nature then. Of course, the pleasure of my boy's days, And their glad animal movements all gone by, To me was all in all, I cannot paint, What then I was, the sounding cataract, Aughted me like a passion, the tall rock, the mountain, And the deep and gloomy wood, their colours and their forms, For then to me an appetite, a feeling, and the love, That had no need of a remote charm, by thought supplied, Nor any interest unborrowed from the eye, that time is past. And all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy raptures. Not for this faint eye, nor more, nor murmur, Other gifts have followed, for such loss I would believe Abundant recompense, for I have learned to look on nature, Not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, But hearing often times the still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power, to chasten and subdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime of something far more deeply infused, Whose dwellings is the light of the setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that empowers all thinking things, All objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. Therefore I am still a lover of the meadows, and the woods, And mountains, and of all that we behold, from this green earth, Of all the mighty world, of eye and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive, while pleased to recognize the nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guy, The guardian of my heart and soul, of all my moral being. Nor perchance, if I were not this thus taught, Should I the more suffer my genial spirits to decay, For thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river, Thou, my dear friend, Nor perchance, if I were not thus taught, Should I the more suffer my genial spirits to decay, For thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river, Thou, my dearest friend, my dear, dear friend, And in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart, And read, my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while may I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister, and this prayer I make, Knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her, Tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life to lead, From joy to joy, for she can so inform the mind that is within us, So impressed with quietness and beauty, And so feed with lofty thoughts, That neither evil tongues, rash judgements, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall ever prevail against us, all disturb our cheerful faith, That all which we behold is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk, And let the misty mountains winds be free to blow against thee, And in half the years, when these wild ecstasies Shall be matured into a somber pleasure, when thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, The memory be as a dwelling place for all sweet sounds and harmonies. Oh, then if solitude or fear or pain or grief should be thy portion With what healing thoughts of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exultations, nor perchance if I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence, Wilt thou then forget that on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together, and that I, so long a worshipper of nature, hither came and wearied in that service, rather say with warmer love, Oh, with far deeper zeal of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget that after many wanderings, Many years of absence, these deep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green, pastoral landscape were to me more dear, Both for themselves, and for thy sake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, A Child Story by Robert Browning Read for LibriVox.org by Mr. Freerking Hamelin towns in Brunswick, by famous Hanover City, The River Vaser deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side, A pleasanter spot you never spied. But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so from vermin, Was a pity. Rats, they fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted Sprats, Made nests inside men's sundae hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking with Shrieking and squeaking in fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the town hall came flocking, To his clear cried they, Our mayors are naughty, And as for our corporation, shocking, To think we buy gowns lined with ermine, For adults that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin? You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rows up, sirs, Give your brains a racking, To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing. At this the mayor and corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in council. At length the mayor broke silence. For a gilder eyed my ermine gown cell, I wish I were a mile hence. It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, I'm sure my poor head aches again. I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap! A trap! A trap! Just as he said this, what should have? At the chamber door but a gentle tap. Bless us, cried the mayor. What's that? With the corporation as he sat, Looking little, the wondrous fat, Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister, Than a too long opened oyster, Save when at noon his punch grew mutinous, For a plate of turtle, green in glutinous. Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat? Makes my heart go pit-a-pat. Come in, the mayor cried, looking bigger, And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pen, With light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in, There was no guessing his kith and kin, And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire, Quote one, it's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the trump of doom's tone, Had walked his way from his painted tombstone. He advanced to the council table, And, please, your honor, said he, I'm able, by means of a secret charm, To draw, all creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw. And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper, And people call me the pied piper. And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of self-sing check, And at the scarf's end hung a pipe, And his fingers they noticed were ever straying, As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe as Loet dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled. Yet, said he, poor piper as I am, In tartary I freed the charm, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats, I eased in Asia the nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats. And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders? One, fifty thousand, was the exclamation Of the astonished mayor and corporation. Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept, In his quiet pipe the while, Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled. And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered, And the muttering grew to a grumbling, And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, And out of the houses the rats came tumbling, Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plotters, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, Followed the piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Vaser, Wherein all plunged and perished. Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry, As he, the mini-script he cherished, To a ratland home his commentary. Which was, at the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples wondrous ripe, Into a cider-pressous gripe, And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving a jar of conserved cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, And a breaking of hoops of butter casks. And it seemed as if a voice, sweeter far than by harp or by sultry, Is breathed, called out, Oh, rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast risultery, So munch on, crunch on, Take your nunch on, breakfast, supper, dinner, lunch on, And just as a bulky sugar punch on, Already staved, like a great sun shone, Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as me thought it said, Come, bore me, I found the Vaser rolling o'er me. You should have heard the Hamelin people, Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple, Go cried the mayor, and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes, Consult with the carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace of the rats, When suddenly, up the face of the piper, Perked in the marketplace with a, First, if you please, my thousand guilders. A thousand guilders? The mayor looked blue, So did the corporation, too, For council dinners made rare havoc, With cleric, moselle, vindigraw, hawk, And half the money would replenish, Their seller's biggest bout with renish, To pay this sum to a wandering fellow, With a gypsy coat of red and yellow. Beside, quote the mayor with a knowing wink, Our business was done at the river's brink, We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink, From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke, But as for the guilders, What we spoke of them, as you very well know, Was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty, A thousand guilders? Come, take fifty. The piper's face fell, and he cried, No trifling, I can't wait, beside. I've promised to visit by dinnertime Bagged at, and accept the prime Of the head-coke's potage, all he's rich in, For having left in the caliph's kitchen Of a nest of scorpions no survivor, With him I proved no bargain driver, With you don't think I'll bait a stiver, And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion. How, cried the mayor, do you think I broke, Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy rybald? With idle pipe, invest your pibald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst. Once more he stepped into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane, And air he blew three notes, Such sweet, soft notes as yet musicians cunning Never gave thee enraptured air. There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling, Of merry crowds jostling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running, all the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music was shouting and laughter. The mayor was dumb, and the council stood, As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to step or cry To the children merrily skipping by, Could only follow with the eye, That joyous crowd at the piper's back, But how the mayor was on the rack, And the wretched council's bosoms beat, As the piper turned from the high street, To where the vaser rolled its waters, Right in the way of their sons and daughters. However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed, Great was the joy in every breast, He never can cross that mighty top, He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop. When low, as they reached the mountainside, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed, And the piper advanced, And the children followed, And when all were in, to the very last, The door in the mountainside shut fast. Did I say all? No. One was lame and could not dance the whole of the way, And in after years, if he would blame, His sadness he used to say, It's dull in our town since my playmeats left, I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the piper also promised me, For he had led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new. The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honeybees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings, And just as I became assured, My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more. Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burger's pate, A text which says that heaven's gate Ops to the rich at as easy rate, As the needle's eye takes a camel in. The mayor sent east, west, north, and south, To offer the piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was mince lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw it was a lost endeavour, And piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly, If after the day of the month and year These words did not as well appear, And so long after what happened here, On the 22nd of July, 1376. And the better in memory to fix, The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper Street, Where any one playing on pipe or taber Was sure for the future to lose his labour, Nor suffered they hostelory or tavern, To shock with mirth a street so solemn, But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column. And on the great church window painted, The same, to make the world acquainted, How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day, And I must not admit to say, That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamilton town in Brunswick land But how or why they don't understand? So, Willie, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men, especially pipers, And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them ought, Let us keep our promise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. We can really. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As if someone gently rapping, Wrapping at my chamber door. To some very time, I met him, Clapping at my chamber door, All of this, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was In the bleeding summer, And each separate dying ember Wrote its ghost upon the floor. Hingly I wished them all, Vainly I had sought to borrow For my books a seat of sorrow, Sorrow for the last few more, For the rare and radiant maidens Who the ancient men ignore. The name is here, or evermore. Now the silken sad, uncertain rustling Of each purple curtain thrill me, Build me with fantastic terror Never felt before, So that now, with still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, To some visitor entreating entrance At my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door, Visitors, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, Hesitating there no longer. So, to that, or manner, Truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was napping, And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, Tapping at my chamber door, That I sketched which way I heard you, Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more, Deep into the darkness peering, Longest to the wandering, fearing, doubting, Dreaming dreams no more to ever dare to dream before, Where the silence was unbroken, And the stillness gave no talk. And the only word there spoke, Were the whispered words, These I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Mirrorless, and nothing more, Back into the chamber turning, All my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping Somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, Surely that is something at my window lattice, Let me see, then, whether it is, This Mr. Explore, Let me hardly still a moment, And this Mr. Explore. To the wind, and nothing more, Open here I flung the shutter, When, with many a flurred and flutter, There stepped a stately rave, Another sanely day of yore. Not a least obeisance, may be, Not a minute stopped a stately, But, with mean of lord or lady, First, above my chamber door, First, upon the best of palace, Just above my chamber door, First, and set, and nothing more, Then this ebony bird, Beguiling my sad fans into smiling, By the graven's turn, The quorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shone and shaven, Thou, I said, I sure know craven, Gasling, grim and ancient, Raven wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me, when thy lordy name Is all the night's return shore, Much a marvel, this ungainly fowl, To hear discourse so plainly, Though it sants a little mean, Little relevancy more, That for we cannot help a green, That no living human being, Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird, About his chamber door, Bird or beast, upon a sculpted bust, About his chamber door, With such nameness, never more. But the raven, sitting low on the other placid bust, Spoke only that one word, As if he saw that one word, He did that for nothing further than he uttered, And not a further than he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than met him. Mother friends have flown before, On the moral he will lead me, And my hopes have flown before, But they're the birds here, and never more. Stuttle that a stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Doubtless, sir, what it uttered, It's only stuck in store, Caught from some unhappy master, Who a merciful disaster, Followed fast, and followed faster, Till he songs one burdened bore, The other dirt is of his hope, That melancholy burdened bore, Of never, never more. Mel range, and still be galling, All my fancy into smiling, Straight, I will the cushion seat, In front of bird, and bust, and moan. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself, To linking fancy unto fancy, Thinking, what is ominous bird of yore? What is green, ungainly, ghastly, golden, ominous bird of yore? Maintain croaking, never more. This satin gaze n' guessing, But no syllable expressing, To the fowl whose fiery eyes Now burn to my bull's core. This and more I start divining, With my head at ease reclining, On the cushion's velvet lining, That the lamp-light glowed yore, But whose velvet-vided lining, With the lamp-light glowed yore, She shall dress. Then more, mistowed, the ergo-dancer, Perfume of an unseen censor, Sworn by seraphibous footfalls, Tinkled on the tafted floor, Thy God had lendly, But his angels he ascended, Respite, respite any fancy From thy memories of linole, Qua for qua this kindly fancy, And forget this lustly linole, Qua thrill, never more. Prophet, said I, being of evil, Prophet still a brutal devil, Where the tempest sent, Where the tempest thusly hear shore, Desolate it, all undaunted, Of this desolate enchanted, Of this home-by-horror haunted. Tell me, truly, I implore, Is there, is above in Gileon? Tell me, tell me, I implore, Qua thrill, never more. Prophet, said I, being of evil, Prophet still a brutal devil, By that heaven abends above us, By that God we both adore. Tell this so, sorrow laden if, Within a distant aiden, It shall clasp the sainted maiden, Who the angels ne'er me know. Plasper and radiant maiden, Who the angels ne'er me know. Qua thrill, never more. Be that word, I sign of parting word of fiend, I shrieked up, starting, Getting back into the tempest, And a nice frittal inshore, Leave no black plume as a token of a rye, I soul has spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken, With a bust above my door, Take thy beak from out my heart, And take thy form from of my door, Of the raven, never more. And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, till is sitting, On the pale in best of paths, Just above my chamber door, And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamp light o'er him streaming, Thows his shadow on floor, And my song from out thy shadow, That I float him on floor, Shall be lifted, never more. And of poem, is recorded in the parting domain.