 A Boo Ben Adam by James Henry Lee Hunt, read for LibriVox.org by Mike Buckley. A Boo Ben Adam, may his tribe increase, awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, and saw within the moonlight in his room, making it rich and like a lily in bloom an angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adam bold and to the presence in the room he said, What right is thou? The vision raised its head, and with a look made of all sweet accord, answered the names of those who love the Lord. In his mind one said, A Boo, nay not so replied the angel, A Boo spoke more low, but surely still and said, I pray thee then, write me as one that loves his fellow men. The angel wrote and vanished. The next night it came again with a great wakening light, and showed the names whom love of God had blessed, and lo, Ben Adam's name led all the rest. August Moonlight by Richard Legallien, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. The solemn light behind the barns, the rising moon, the crickets call, the August night, and you and I, what is the meaning of it all? Has it a meaning, after all, or is it one of nature's lies, that net of beauty that she casts over life's unsuspecting eyes, that web of beauty that she weaves for one strange purpose of her own, for this the painted butterfly, for this the rose, for this alone? Strange repetition of the rose, and strange reiterated call of bird and insect, man and maid, is that the meaning of it all? If it means nothing, after all, and nothing lives except to die, it is enough that solemn light behind the barns, and you and I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Ballad of Past Meridian by George Meredith, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. 1. Last night, returning from my twilight walk, I met the grey-missed Death, whose eyeless brow was bent on me, and from his hand of chalk he reached me flowers as from a withered bow. Oh Death, what bitter nose-gay givest thou? 2. Death said, I gather, and pursued his way. Another stood by me, a shape in stone, sword-hacked and iron-stained with breasts of clay, and metal veins that sometimes fiery shone. Oh, life, how naked and how hard when known! 3. Life said, as thou hast carved me, such am I. Then memory, like the night jar on the pine, and sightless hope, a woodlark in night sky joined notes of death and life till nights decline. Of death, of life, those in-wound notes are mine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Her voice was like the song of birds, her eyes were like the stars, her little waving hands were like birds' wings that beat the bars, and when those waving hands were still, her soul had fled away, the music faded from the air, the colour from the day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Contentment by Oliver Wendell Holmes, read for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker, September 2007. The poem begins with a quotation, Man wants but little here below. Little I ask, my wants or few, I only wish a hut of stone, a very plain brown stone will do, that I may call my own, and close at hand is such a one, in yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me, three courses are as good as ten, if nature can subsist on three, thank heaven for three, amen. I always thought cold, victual, nice, my choice would be vanilla ice. I care not much for gold or land, give me a mortgage here and there, some good bank stock, some note of hand, or trifling railroad chair, I only ask that fortune send a little more than I shall spend. Honours are silly toys I know, and titles are but empty names, I would perhaps be plenipot but only near St. James, I'm very sure that I should not care to fill our gubernator's chair. Jewels or bobbles, tis a sin, to care for such unfruitful things, one good-sized diamond in a pin, some not so large in rings, a ruby and a pearl or so will do for me, I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire, good heavy silks are never dear, I own perhaps I might desire some shawls of true cashmere, some Maori crepes of china silk, like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive so fast that folks must stop and stare, an easy gate, two forty-five, suits me, I do not care, perhaps for just a single spurt some seconds less would do no hurt. Of pictures I should like to own, titions and raffles three or four, I love so much their style and tone, one turner and no more, a landscape foreground golden dirt the sunshine painted with a squirt, a books but view some fifty score for daily use and bound for nowhere, the rest upon an upper floor some little luxury there, of red maracros goaded gleam and velum rich as country cream, busts, cameos, gems, such things as these which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please and shelfish jewels to ride. One stride of areas I confess, two mere shams I would feign possess, wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn nor ate the glittering upstart full, shall not carve tables serve my turn, but all must be of bull, give grasping pomp its double share I ask but one recumbent chair, thus humble let me live and die, nor long for Midas golden touch, if heaven more generous gifts deny I shall not miss them much, too grateful for the blessings lent of simple tastes and mind content. End of Poem This recording is in the Public Domain. How Did You Die? by Edmund Vance Cook Read for LibriVox.org by Michael Robinson, Carbondale, Illinois Did you tackle that trouble that came your way with a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day with a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, or a trouble is what you make it. And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, but only, how did you take it? You are beaten to earth, well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat but to lie there. That's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce. Be proud of your blackened eye. It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts. It's how did you fight, and why? And though you be done to the death, what then, if you battled the best you could, if you played your part in the world of men, why, the critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, and whether he's slower spry? It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, but only, how did you die? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In a garden, by Algern and Charles Swinburne, read for libravox.org by Annika Feilbach. In a garden, baby, see the flowers, baby sees fairer things than these, fairer though they be than dreams of ours, baby, hear the birds, baby knows better songs than those, sweeter though they sound than sweetest words, baby, see the moon, baby's eyes laugh to watch it rise, answering light with love and night with noon, baby, hear the sea, baby's face takes a graver grace, touched with wonder what the sound may be, baby, see the star, baby's hand opens warm and bland, calm and claim of all things fair that are, baby, hear the bells, baby's head bows is ripe for bed, now the flowers cull round and close their cells, baby, flower of light, sleep and see brighter dreams than we, till good day shall smile away good night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. No coward's soul is mine, no trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere. I see heaven's glory shine, and faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast, almighty ever-present deity, life, that in me has rest, as I, undying life, have power in thee. Vain are the thousand creeds that move men's hearts, unutterably vain, worthless as withered weeds or idlest froth amid the boundless mane. To waken doubt in one holding so fast by thine infinity, so surely anchored on the steadfast rock of immortality. With wide embracing love thy spirit animates eternal years, pervades and broods above. Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears. Though earth and man were gone, and suns and universes ceased to be, and thou were left alone, every existence would exist in thee. There is not room for death, nor Adam that his might could render void, thou art being and breath, and what thou art may never be destroyed. The Laws of God, the Laws of Man, by A. E. Hausman, read for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker. The Laws of God, the Laws of Man, he may keep that will and can. Not I let God and man decree laws for themselves and not for me. And if my ways are not as theirs, let them mind their own affairs. Their deeds I judge in much condemn, yet when did I make laws for them? Use yourselves, say I, and they need only look the other way. But no, they will not. They must still rest their neighbor to their will, and make me dance as they desire with jail and gallows and hellfire. And how am I to face the odds of man's bedevilment and gods? I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made. They will be master right or wrong, though both are foolish, both are strong. And since my soul we cannot fly, to Saturn nor to Mercury I. Keep we must, if keep we can, these foreign laws of God and man. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. London, by William Blake, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. I wander through each chartered street, near where the chartered Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet, marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, in every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, the mind-forged manacles I hear. How the chimney-sweepers cry, every blackening church appalls, And the hapless soldiers sigh, runs in blood down palace walls. But most through midnight streets I hear, how the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the newborn infant's tear, and blights with plagues the marriage-hurse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Musical Instrument by Elizabeth Barrett-Browning Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. What was he doing, the great god Pan, down in the reeds by the river, Spreading ruin and scattering ban, splashing and paddling with hooves of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat, with the dragonfly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, from the deep cool bed of the river. The limpid water turbidly ran, and the broken lilies a dying lay, And the dragonfly had fled away, ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore set the great god Pan, while turbidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a great god can, with his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed to prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, how tall it stood in the river. Then drew the pith like the heart of a man, steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing in holes, as he sat by the river. This is the way, laughed the great god Pan, laughed while he sat by the river. The only way, since gods began to make sweet music, they could succeed. Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, he blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, oh Pan, piercing sweet by the river, Being sweet, oh great god Pan, the sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragonfly came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, to laugh as he sits by the river. Making a poet out of a man, the true god sighed for the cost and pain, For the reed which grows never more again, as a reed with the reeds in the river. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Near Avalon by William Morris, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. A ship with shields before the sun, six maidens round the mast. A red gold crown on every one, a green gown on the last. The fluttering green banners there are wrought with ladies' heads most fair, And a portraiture of Guinevere the middle of each sail doth bear. A ship with sails before the wind, and round the helm six nights. Their homes are on, whereby half blind they pass by many sights. The tattered scarlet banners there right soon will leave the spearheads bare. Those six knights sorrowfully bear in all their homes some yellow hair. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Portent by Herman Melville, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Hanging from the beam, slowly swaying, such the law, gaunt the shadows on your green Shenandoah. The cut is on the crown, low John Brown, and the stabs shall heal no more. Even in the cap is the anguish none can draw, so your future veils its face, Shenandoah. But the streaming beard is shown, weird John Brown, the meteor of the war. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Glad did I live, and gladly die, and I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me. Here he lies, where he longed to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter, home from the hill. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Silence by Thomas Hood. There is a silence where hath been no sound. There is a silence where no sound may be. In the cold grave, under the deep deep sea, or in wide desert where no life is found, which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound. No voices hushed, no life tread silently. But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, that never spoke over the idle ground. But in green ruins, in the desolate walls of antique places, where man hath been, though the done fox or wild hyena calls, and owls that flit continually between shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan. Where the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Single Hound by Emily Dickinson. I never told the buried gold upon the hill that lies. I saw the sun, his plunder done, crouched low to guard his prize. He stood as near as you stood here, a pace had been between. But a snake bisect the break my life had forfeit been. That was a wondrous booty I hoped was honest gained. Those were the finest ingots that ever kissed the spade. Whether to keep the secret, whether to reveal, whether, while I ponder, kid may sudden sail. Could a shrewd advise me, we might Ian divide, should a shrewd betray me, a tropos decide. End of poem. Song by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Let it be forgotten as a flower is forgotten. Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold. Let it be forgotten for ever and ever. Time is a kind friend, he will make us old. If anyone asks, say it was forgotten long and long ago, as a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall in a long forgotten snow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of Myself, Section 50 by Walt Whitman. Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. There is that in me. I do not know what it is, but I know it is in me. Unsaid and sweaty, calm and cool, then my body becomes. I sleep, I sleep long. I do not know it. It is without a name. It is a word unsaid. It is not in any dictionary utterance symbol, something it swings on more than the earth I swing on. To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me. Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines, I plead for my brothers and sisters. Do you see, O my brothers and sisters, it is not chaos or death. It is form, union, plan. It is eternal life. It is happiness. Red for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker. To the sundial under the window of the hall of the House of Representatives of the United States. Thou silent herald of time, silent flight, say, couldest thou speak, what warning voice were thine? Shade, who canst only show how others shine? Dark sullen witness of resplendent light, in days broad glare and when the noon tide bright, of laughing fortune sheds the ray divine, thy ready favors cheer us, but decline the clouds of morning and the bloom of night. Yet are thy counsels faithful just and wise, they bid us seize the moments as they pass, snatch the retrieveless sunbeam as it flies, nor lose one sand of lice-revolving glass, aspiring still with energy sublime, by virtuous deeds to give eternity to time. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. The Wants of Man by John Quincy Adams Red for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker. Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long. Tis not with me exactly so, but tis so in the song. My wants are many and, if told, would muster many a score, and were each wish a mint of gold I still should long for more. What first I want is daily bread and canvas-backs and wine, and all the realms of nature spread before me when I dine, for courses scarcely can provide my appetite to quell, with four choice-cooks from France besides to dress my dinner well. What next I want at princely cost is elegant attire. Black sable furs for winter's frost and silk for summer's fire, and cashmere shawls and Brussels lace my bosoms front to deck, and diamond rings my hands to grace and rubies for my neck. I want, who does not want, a wife, affectionate and fair, to solace all the woes of life and all its joys to share, of temper sweet, of yielding will, of firm yet placid mind, with all my faults to love me still, with sentiment refined. And as time's car incessant runs and fortune fills my store, I want of daughters and of sons from eight to half a score. I want, alas, can mortal dare such bliss on earth to crave, that all the girls be chaste and fair, the boys all wise and brave. I want a warm and faithful friend to cheer the adverse hour, who narrative-flatter will descend nor bend the knee to power, a friend to chide me when I'm wrong, my inmost soul to see, and that my friendship prove as strong for him as his for me. I want the seals of power in place, the ensigns of command, charged by the people's unbought grace to rule my native land, nor crown nor scepter would I ask but from my country's will, by day by night to ply the task, her cup of bliss to fill. I want the voice of honest praise to follow me behind, and to be thought in future days the friend of all humankind, that after ages as they rise, exulting may proclaim, in coral union to the skies their blessings on my name. These are the wants of mortal man, I cannot want them long, for life itself is but a span and earthly bliss a song. My last great want, absorbing all, is when beneath the sod, and summon to my final call the mercy of my God. End of poem