 Advice to a young author by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley, March 2010. First to begin, taking in. Cargo stored, all aboard. Think about giving out. Empty ship, useless trip. Never strain weary brain, hardly fit, wait a bit, after rest comes the best. Sitting still, let it hill, never press, nerve stress, always shows, nature knows. Critics kind, never mind. Critics flatter, no matter. Critics curse, none the worse. Critics blame, all the same. Do your best. Hang the rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Youth's high hope, a burning fire. Young men needs must break the chains that hold them from their heart's desire. My friend, the hills, the sea, the sun, the winds, the woods, the clouds, the trees. How feebly, if my youth were done, could I, an old man relish these. With love to them, I'll go to greet what fate is still in store for me. And welcome death, if we should meet, and bear him willing company. My share of four score years and ten, I'll gladly yield to any man. And take no thought of where or when, contented with my shortest span. For I have learned what love may be, and found a heart that understands. And known a comrade's constancy, and felt a grip of friendly hands. Come when it may, the sternic tree, for me to leave the cheery throng, and quit the sturdy company of brothers that I work among. No need for me to look as glance, since no regret my prospect mars. My day was happy, and perchance the coming night is full of stars. End of poem. This recording is in a public domain. Clara Hughes, from Biography for Beginners. Read for LibbyVox.org by Algie Pung, Perth, Western Australia. The art of biography is different from geography. Biography is about maps, but biography is about chaps. So Christopher Wren said, I am going to die with some men. If anyone calls, say I am desiding St. Paul's. So Humphrey Davy, abominated gravy. He lived in the odium of having discovered sodium. John Stuart Mill, by a mighty effort of will, overcame his natural bonomy and wrote Principles of Economy. What I like about Clive is that he is no longer alive. There is a great deal to be said for being dead. Edward the Confessor slept under the dresser. When that began to pull, he slept in the hall. Chapman and Hall swore not at all. Mr. Chapman's yea was yea, and Mr. Hall's nay was nay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Conversation Galante, by T. S. Elliott. Read for LibbyVox.org by Miss Averiss. I observe our sentimental friend the moon, or possibly, fantastic, I confess. It may be Prestor John's balloon or an old battered lantern hung aloft to light poor travelers to their distress. She then, how you digress. And I then, someone frames upon the keys that exquisite nocturne, with which we explain the night and moonshine music which we seize to body forth our own vacuity. She then, does this refer to me? Oh no, it is I who am inane. You, madame, are the eternal humorist, the eternal enemy of the absolute, giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist, with your air indifferent and imperious, at a stroke our mad poetics to confute. And are we then so serious? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dead Love, by Mary Matthews Adams. Read for LibbyVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Two loves had eye, now both are dead, and both are marked by tombstones white. The one stands in the churchyard near, the other hid from mortal sight. The name on one all men may read and learn who lies beneath the stone. The other name is written where no eyes can read it but my own. On one I plant a living flower and cherish it with loving hands. I shun the single withered leaf that tells me where the other stands. To that white tombstone on the hill in summer days I often go. From this white stone that nearer lies I turn me with unuttered woe. Oh God, I pray, if love must die and make no more of life apart, witness be where all can see and not within a living heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dream of Eugene Aram by Thomas Hood. Read for LibbyVox.org. It was in the prime of summertime and evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school. There were some that ran and some that leapt like tradlets in a pool. Away they sped with games and minds and touched by sin. To a level mean they came and there they draped the wickets in. Pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about and shouted as they ran, turning to mirthful things of earth as only boyhood can. But the usher sat remote from all a melancholy man. His hat was off, his vest apart to catch heaven's blessed breeze. For a burning thought was in his brow and his knees. So he leaned his head on his hands and read the book upon his knees. Leaf after leaf he turned it over and wherever glanced aside. For the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden kneeling tide. Much study had made him very lean and pale and lead and eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tone with a fast and fervent grasp. He strained the dusky covers close and fixed the brazen hasp. But could I so close my mind and clasp it with a clasp that leaping on his feet upright some moody turns he took, now up the mead, then down the mead and passed a shady nook. And lo he saw a little boy report upon a book. My gentle lad, what does he read? Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable? The young boy gave an upward glance. It is the death of Abel. Six hasty strides are smitten with sudden pain. Six hasty strides be on the place then slowly back again. And down he sat beside the lad and talked with him of cane. And long since then a bloody man whose deeds tradition saves of lonely folks cut off on scene and hidden sudden graves of horrid stabs and groves for lawn and murders done in caves. And how the sprites of injured men shriek upwards from the sod I how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial-clod and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from God. He told how murderers walk the earth beneath the curse of cane with crimson clouds before their eyes and flames about their brain for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain. And well, Quothee, I know for truth their pangs must be extreme. An utterable woe who spilled life's sacred stream. For why? Me thought last night I wrought a murder in a dream. One that had never done me wrong a feeble man and old I led him to a lonely field the moon shone clear and cold. Now here said I this man shall die and I will have his gold. Two sudden blows with a ragged stick and one with a heavy stone and then the deed was done. There was nothing lying on my foot but lifeless flesh and bone. Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone but could not do me ill. And yet I feared him all the more for lying there so still. There was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill. And lo, the universal air seemed lit with ghastly flame. Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame. I took the dead man by his hand and called upon his name. Oh God, it made me quick to see such sense within the slain. But when I touched the lifeless play the blood gashed out of me. For every clot a burning spot was scorching in my brain. My head was like an ardent coal. My heart a solid ice. My wretched wretched soul I knew was at the devil's price. A dozen times I grown. The dead had never grown between the dead had never grown but twice. And now from forth the frowning sky from the heavens topmost height I heard a voice, the awful voice of the blood avenging sprite. That guilty man take up thy dead and hide it from my sight. I took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream. A sluggish watered black as ink the depth was so extreme. My gentle boy remember this is nothing but a dream. Down went the corpse with a hollow plunge and vanished in the pool and all night cleansed my bloody hands and washed my forehead cool and sat among the edges young that evening in the school. Oh heaven to think of their white souls and mine so black and grim I could not share in childish prayer nor join an evening hymn like a devil of the pit I seemed. Mid-holy cherubim. And peace went with them one and all and each calm pillow spread. But guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed and drew my midnight curtains round with fingers bloody red. All night I lay in agony and anguished dark and deep. My fevered eyes I dead not close but stared aghast asleep. The sin had rendered unto her the keys of hell to keep. All night I lay in agony from weary chime to chime with one besetting horrid hymn that wracked me all the time. A mighty yearning like the first fierce impulse under crime. One stern, tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave stronger and stronger every pulse to that temptation grave still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave. Heavily I rose up as soon as light was in the sky and saw the black accursed pool with a wild, misgiving eye. And I saw the dead in the river bed for the fatal stream was dry. Merrily I rose the lark and shook the dewdrop from its wing but I never marked its morning flight. I never heard it sing for I was stooping once again under the horrid thing. With breathless speed like a solemn chase I took him up and ran. There was no time to dig a grave before the day began. In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves I hid the murdered man. And all that day I read in school but my thought was otherware as soon as the midday task was done in secret I went there and a mighty wind had swept the leaves and still the corpse was bare. Then down I cast me on my face and first began to weep for I knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep or land or sea although he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. So wills the fierce of edging spright till blood for blood atones. I though he's buried in a cave and trodden down with stones and years have rotted off his flesh the world shall see his bones. Oh God that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake again, again with dizzy brain the human life I take and my red-right hand grows raging hard like Kranmer's a mistake and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow the horrid thing pursues my soul it stands before me now the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow that very night while gentle sleep the urchins eyelids kissed two stern-faced men set out from Lynn through the cold and heavy mist and Eugene Aaron walked between with jives upon his wrist End of poem This recording is in the public domain Failure by Rupert Brooke Free Vox by Miss Averis Because God put his adamantine fate between my soul and heart in its desire I swore that I would burst the iron gate rise up and curse him on his throne of fire Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy but love was as a flame about my feet proud of the golden stare I strode and beat, thrice on the gate and injured with a cry all the great courts were quiet in the sun and full of vacant echoes over the glassy pavement and begun to creep within the dusty council halls an idle wind blew round an empty throne and stirred the heavy curtains on the walls End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Gift of the Gods by Inesbit Read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golden Give me thy dreams she said and I she hands and very poor watched my fair flowery visions die upon the temple's marble floor Give joy she said I let joy go I saw with cold unclouded eyes the crimson of the sunset glow across the disenchanted skies Give me thy youth she said I gave and sudden clouded died the sun and on the green mound of a grave fell the slow raindrops one by one Give love she cried I gave that too Give beauty beauty sighed and fled for what on earth should beauty do when love who was her life was dead she took the balm of innocent tears to hiss upon her alter-cold she took the hopes of all my years and at the last she took my soul with heart made empty of delight and hands that held fair things I questioned her what shall requite the savor of my offerings the gods she said with generous hand give girdon for thy gifts of cost wisdom is thine to understand the worths of all that thou hast lost end of poem this recording is in the public domain Had I the choice by Walt Whitman read for the bravox.org Had I the choice to tally greatest bards to limb their portraits stately, beautiful and emulate at will Homer with all his wars and warriors Hector, Achilles, Ajax or Shakespeare's woe entangled Hamlet, Lear, Othello Tennyson's Fair Ladies meet her or wit the best or choice conceit to wield in perfect rhyme delight of singers these these, O sea all these I gladly barter would you the undulation of one wave its trick to me transfer or breathe one breath of yours upon my verse and leave its odor there end of poem this recording is in the public domain read by Alan Davis Drake he took his vorpal sword in hand long time the manxom foe he sought so rested he by the tum tum tree and stood a while in thought and as in a fish thought he stood the jabber walk with eyes of flame came whiffing through the telji wood and the jabber walk with eyes of flame came whiffing through the telji wood and berbalt as it came one two one two and through and through the vorpal blade went snickersnack he left it dead and with its head he went glumping back and hest thou slain the jabber walk come to my arms by mutish boy O Frabjus Day Calu Calay he chortled in his jaw Twas Brillik and the slivy toves did gyre and gimble in the wave all mimsy were the borogroves and the moan rats out grey end of poem this recording is in the public domain Lines from Maureen by Ella Willer Wilcox referlibrivox.org by Leanne Howlett I'd rather have my verses win a place in common people's hearts who toiling through the strife and den of life's great thoroughfares and marks may read some line my hand has penned some simple verse not fine or grand but what their hearts can understand and hold me henceforth as a friend I'd rather win such quiet fame than by some fine thought abolished so but those of learned minds would know just what the meaning of my song to have the critics sound my name in high-flung praises loud and long I sing not for the critics ear but for the masses if they hear despite the turmoil noise and strife some least low note that gladdens life I shall be wholly satisfied though critics to the end deride poem this recording is in the public domain Macbeth by Walter Delamare read forlibrivox.org by Tim Tilby rose like dim battlements the hills and reared steep crags into the fading primrose sky but in the desolate valleys fell small rain mingled with drifting cloud I saw one come like the fierce passion of that vacant place his face turned goodering to the evening sky his eyes like greatest bear fixed saturously on the still rainy turrets of the storm and all his armor in a haze of blue he held no sword bear was his hand unclenched as if to hide the inextinguishable blood murder had painted there and his wild mouth seemed spouting echoes of deluded thoughts around his head like vipers all distort his locks shook heavy laden at each strife if fire may burn invisible to the eye oh if despair strive everlastingly then haunted hear the creature of despair fanning and fanning flame to lick upon a soul still childish in a blackened hell end of poem this recording is in the public domain medicine song of an Indian lover an Ojibwa poem read forlibrivox.org by Seneca Souter who maiden makes this river flow the spirit he makes its ripples glow but I have a charm that can make thee dear steal over the wave to thy lover here who maiden makes this river flow the spirit he makes its ripples glow yet every blush that my love would hide is mirrored for me in the tell-tale tide and though thou shouldest sleep on the farthest aisle round which these dimplings watered smile yet I have a charm that can make thee dear steal over the wave to thy lover here end of poem this recording is in the public domain on the world by Francis Quarles read forlibrivox.org by L. Lambert Lawson the world's an inn and I her guest I eat I drink I take my rest my hostess nature does deny me nothing wherewith she can supply me where having stayed a while I pay her lavish bills and go my way end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Romant of Humpty Dumpty by Henry S. Lee read forlibrivox.org by Ruth Golding tis midnight and the moonbeam sleeps upon the garden sword my lady in yon turret keeps her tearful watch and ward be shroomy mutters turning pale the stalwart seneshile what's he that sitteth clad in mail upon our castle wall arouse thee fire of orders gray what ho bring book and bell ban yonder ghastly thing I say and look ye ban it well by cock and pie the Humpty's face the form turned quickly around then tottered from its resting place that night the course was found the king with hosts fighting men rode forth at break of day never gleamed the sun till then on such a proud array but all that army horse and foot attempted quite in vain upon the castle wall to put the Humpty up again end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Song of the Bow by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley March 2010 what of the bow the bow was made in England of true wood, of you would the wood of English bows so men who are free love the old you tree and the land where the you tree grows what of the cord the cord was made in England a rough cord a tough cord a cord that bowmen love and so we will sing of the hump and string and the land where the cord was wove what of the shaft the shaft was cut in England a long shaft a strong shaft barbed in trim and true so we'll drink all together to the grey goose feather and the land where the grey goose flew what of the mark ah, seek it not in England a bold mark our old mark is waiting over sea when the strings harp in chorus and the lion flag is o'er us it is there that our mark will be what of the men the men were bred in England the bowmen the yeomen the lads of dale and fell here's to you to the hearts that are true and the land where the true hearts dwell end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 130 by William Shakespeare read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry my mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun coral is far more red than her lips red if snow be white why then her breasts are dumb if hair be wires black wires grow on her head I have seen roses demasked red and white but no such roses see I in her cheeks and in some perfumes there is more delight than the breath which from my mistress reeks I love to hear her speak yet well I know that music has a far more pleasing sound I grant I never saw a goddess go my mistress when she walks treads on the ground and yet by heaven I count my lovers rare as any she belied with false compare end of poem this recording is in the public domain Shakespeare Sonnet 138 read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Patinama when my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her though I know she lies that she might think me some untutored youth unlearn it in the world's false subtleties thus feigning thinking that she thinks me young although she knows my days are past the best simply I credit her false speaking tongue on both sides thus a simple truth suppressed but wherefore say she not she is unjust and wherefore say not I that I am old though love's best habit is in seeming trust and age in love loves not to have years told therefore I lie with her and she with me and in our faults by lies we flattered be end of poem this recording is in the public domain for precious ever lingering memories of you my mother dear you father you brothers sisters friends for all my days not those of peace alone the days of war the same for gentle words caresses gifts from foreign lands for shelter wine and meat for sweet appreciation you distant dim unknown for old countless unspecified readers beloved we never met and never shall meet and yet our souls embrace long close and long for beings groups love deeds words books for colors forms for all the brave strong men devoted hearty men who forward sprung to help all years all lands for braver stronger more devoted men a special laurel ere I go to life's war's chosen ones the canineers of song and thought the great artillerists the foremost leaders captains of the soul as soldiers from an ended war returned as travelers out of myriads to the long procession respective thanks joyful thanks a soldier's travelers thanks end of poem this recording is in the public domain read by alan davis drake to mary by john claire read for the rockstar orc by denis d I sleep with thee and wake with thee and yet thou art not there I fill my arms with thoughts of thee and press the common air thy arms are gazing upon mine when thou art out of sight my lips are always touching thine at morning noon at night I think and speak of other things to keep my mind at rest but still to thee my memory clings like love in women's breast I hide it from the world's wide eye and think and speak contrary but soft the wind comes from the sky and whispers tales of mary the night wind whispers in my ear the moon shines on my face the burden still of chilling fear I find in every place the breeze is whispering in the bush and leaves fall from the tree all sighing on and will not hush some pleasant tales of thee in their palm the shirk wording is in the public domain Valentine's song by Robert Argyle Kemble read for the bivox.org boy dynasty dearest let these roses in their purity be a present symbol of my love for thee underneath the blossom thorns are sure to grow take heed lest you touch them they would pain you so my faults like thorns are but cannot they be here beneath the flowers of my love for thee end of poem this recording is in the public domain The West Wind by John Maysfield read for the bivox.org by Algie Pug Perth Western Australia it's a warm wind the west wind full of birds cries I never hear the west wind but tears in my eyes for it comes from the west lands the old brown hills and aprils in the west wind and daffodils it's a fine land the west land for hearts as tired as mine apple orchards blossom there and the air's like wine there is cool green grass there where men may lie at rest and the thrushes are in song near fluting from the nest will ye not come home brother ye have been long away it's april and blossom time and white is the may and bright is the sun brother and warm is the rain will ye not come home brother home to us again the young corn is green brother where the rabbits run it's blue sky and white clouds and warm rain and sun it's song to a man's soul brother fire to a man's brain to hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again larks are singing in the west brother above the green wheat so will ye not come home brother and rest your tired feet I have a balm for bruised hearts brother sleep for aching eyes says the warm wind the west wind full of birds cries it's the white road westward is the road I must tread to the green grass the cool grass and rest for heart and head to the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes song in the fine land the west land the land where I belong end of poem this recording is in the public domain is this then said I what the author calls a man's life and so will someone when I am dead and gone write my life as if any man really knew art of my life why even I myself I often think I know little or nothing of my real life only a few hints a few diffused faint clues and indirections I seek for my own new life