 America, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. I am the refuge of all the oppressed. I am the boast of the free. I am the harbor where ships may rest, safely twixt sea and sea. I hold up a torch to the darkened world. I lighten the path with its ray. Let my hand keep steady and let me be ready for whatever comes my way. Let me be ready. Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns, better than Lancer spear, are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons, faithful and without fear. But my daughters and sons must understand that Attila did not die, and they must be ready, their hands must be steady if the hosts of hell come nigh. They must be ready. If Jesus were back on the earth with men, he would not preach today until he had made him a scourge, and again he would drive the defilers away. He would throw down the tables of lust and greed and scatter the changer's gold. He would be ready, his hand would be steady, as it was in that temple of old. He would be ready. I am the cradle of God's new world, from me shall the new race rise, and my glorious banner must float unfurled, unsullied against the skies. My sons and daughters must be my strength, with courage to do and to dare, with hearts that are ready, with hands that are steady, and their slogan must be prepare. They must be ready. With a prayer on the lip, they must shoulder arms, for after all that has been said we must muster guns. If we master Huns and Attila is not dead, we must be ready. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. America by Bertrand Shadwell. Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. A refuge for the oppressed. Now, God be praised, here they may live at peace. By her just laws, all men are free and equal. No more wars for greed of gold or land, no standard raised, driving armed hordes by bloody fever crazed, to deeds which calm insane the mind abhors, sending their souls in an unrighteous cause naked before God's judgment seat, amazed. Such was this country, but within the hour, false creed of conquest, luring her to ill, she has become an armed imperial power, crushing a weaker people to her will. Let freedom's banner then to earth be hurled, and raise the despots flag of the grim old world. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. America by James Monroe Whitfield. Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. America, it is to thee thou boasted land of liberty. It is to thee I raise my song, thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong. It is to thee my native land, from whence has issued many a ban, to tear the black man from his soil, and force him here to delve and toil. Chained on your blood bemoistened sod, cringing beneath a tyrant's rod, stripped of those rites which nature's God bequeathed to all the human race. Bound to a tyrant's nod, because he wears a paler face. Was it for this that freedom's fires were kindled by your patriot sires? Was it for this they shed their blood, on hills and plain, on field and flood? Was it for this that wealth and life were staked upon that desperate strife, which drenched this land for seven long years, with blood of men and women's tears? When black and white fought side by side upon the well-contested field, turned back the fear-supposing tide, and made the proud invader yield, when wounded side by side they lay, and heard with joy the proud hurrah from their victorious comrades say, that they had waged a successful war. The thought-nare entered in their brains, that they endured those toils and pains, to forge fresh fetters, heavier chains for their own children, in whose veins should flow that patriotic blood, so freely shed on field and flood. Oh no, they fought, as they believed, for the inherent rites of man. But, Mark, how they have been deceived by slavery's accursed plan. They never thought, when thus they shed their heart's best blood in freedom's cause, that their own sons would live in dread, under unjust, oppressive laws, that those who quietly enjoyed the rites for which they fought and fell, could be the framers of a code that would disgrace the fiends of hell. Could they have looked with prophets' ken, down to the present evil time, seen the freeborn men, uncharged with crime, consigned unto a slaver's pen, or thrust into a prison cell, with thieves and murderers to dwell. While that same flag, whose stripes and stars had been their guide through freedom's wars, as proudly waved above the pen, of dealers in the souls of men. Or could the shades of all the dead, who fell beneath that starry flag, visit the scenes where they once bled, on hill and plain, on veil and crag, by peaceful brook or ocean strand, by inland lake or dark green wood, wherever the soil of this wide land was moistened by their patriot blood, and then survey the country o'er, from north to south, from east to west, and hear the agonizing cry ascending up to God on high, from western wilds to ocean shore, the fervent prayer of the oppressed. The cry of helpless infancy, torn from the parents' fond caress, by some base tool of tyranny, and doomed to woe and wretchedness. The indigent wail of fiery youth, its noble aspirations crushed, its generous zeal, its love of truth, trampled by tyrants in the dust. The aerial piles which fancy reared, and hopes too bright to be enjoyed, have passed and left his young heart seared, and all its dreams of bliss destroyed. The shriek of virgin purity, doomed to some libertines and brace, should rouse the strongest sympathy of each one of the human race. And weak old age, oppressed with care, as he reviews the scene of strife, puts up to God a fervent prayer to close his dark and troubled life. The cry of fathers, mothers, wives, severed from all their hearts hold dear, and doomed to spend their wretched lives in gloom and doubt and hate and fear, and manhood too, with soul of fire and arm of strength and smothered ire, stands pondering with brow of gloom upon his dark unhappy doom, whether to plunge in battle's strife and buy his freedom with his life, and with stout heart and weapons strong pay back the tyrant wrong for wrong, or wait the promised time of God, when his almighty ire shall wake, and smite the oppressor in his wrath, and hurl red ruin in his path, and with the terrors of his rod cause adamantine hearts to quake. Here Christian rides in bondage still, beneath his brother Christian's rod, and pastors trample down at will the image of the living God, while prayers go up in lofty strains and peeling hymns ascend to heaven, the captive toiling in his chains with tortured limbs and bosom riven, raises his fettered hand on high and in the accents of despair. To him who rules both earth and sky, puts up a sad and fervent prayer to free him from the awful blast of slavery's bitter galling shame. Although his portion should be cast with demons in eternal flame, almighty God, tis this they call the land of liberty and law, part of its sons in baser thrall than Babylon or Egypt saw, worse scenes of rapine, lust and shame than Babylonian ever knew, are perpetrated in the name of God, the holy, just and true, and darker doom than Egypt felt, may yet repay this nation's guilt. Almighty God, thy aid impart, and fire anew each faltering heart, and strengthen every patriot's hand, who aims to save our native land. We do not come before thy throne, with carnal weapons drenched in gore, although our blood has freely flown, in adding to the tyrant's store. Father, before thy throne we come, not in the panoply of war, with peeling trump and rolling drum, and cannon booming loud and far, striving in blood to wash out blood, through wrong to seek redress for wrong, for while thou art holy, just and good, the battle is not to the strong, but in the sacred name of peace, of justice, virtue, love and truth, we pray and never mean to cease, till weak old age and fiery youth, in freedoms cause their voices raise, and burst the bonds of every slave, till north and south, and east and west, the wrongs we bear shall be redressed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Autumn Evening, by Francis Cornford. Red for LibriVox.org, by Thomas Peter. The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, and I upon the old red sofa lying, the great brown shadows leaping up the wall, the sparrows twittering, and that is all. I thought to send my soul to far off lands, where fairies scamper on the windy sands, or where the autumn rain comes drumming down on huddled roofs in an enchanted town. But oh my sleepy soul, it will not roam. It is too happy and too warm at home, with just the shadows leaping up the wall, the sparrows twittering, and that is all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Autumn Picture, by Alfred Austin. Red for LibriVox.org, by Ian King. Now, round red roofs, stand russet stacks a row, homeward from gleaning in the stubbly wheat. High overhead, the harsh rook saleth slow, and coupless acorns crackle beneath your feet. No breeze, no breath, veereth the oast house hoods, whence the faint smoke floats frequently away. And in the distance, the half hazy woods glow with the barren glory of decay. Vainly the brambles strives to drape the hedge, whose leafless gaps show many an empty nest. The chill pool stagnates round the seeded sedge, and as the sunset saddens in the west, funereal mist comes creeping down the dale, and widowed autumn weeps behind her veil. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Banjo Player, by Fenton Johnson. Red for LibriVox.org, by Anita Slova Martinez. The Banjo Player. There's music in me, the music of a peasant people. I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field. At the last chance saloon I am as welcome as the violets in March. There is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Chris Kringle. But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. City of Huge Buildings Into Which Men Have Poured Their Souls by Florence Kipper Frank. Red for LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. City of Huge Buildings Into Which Men Have Poured Their Souls City of innumerable schools where little children are taught and cared for. City of the Great University, discussing solemn and learned questions. City of well-dressed, beautiful women, sleek, satisfied, sure of their clothes and of themselves. And their husbands, sleek and satisfied also. I, a common prostitute, in the one morning, buying cocaine, ask you the meaning of it all. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. The Comforters by Dora Sigerson Shorter Red for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez The Comforters When I crept over the hill, broken with tears, when I crouched down on the grass, dumb and despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears. I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone on the height, my sorrow did speak. As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried. The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek. The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. When I went to thy grave, broken with tears, when I crouched down in the grass, dumb and despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind soft in my ears. I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak. When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried. The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek. The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A cradle song by William Butler Yeats. Read for Libervox.org by Angela Holden. The angels are stooping above your bed. They weary of trooping with the whimpering dead. God's laughing in heaven to see you so good. The sailing seven are gay with his mood. I sigh that kiss you, for I must own, that I shall miss you. When you have grown. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dance of Death by Rabbi Santo de Carrion. Circa 1360. Read for Libervox.org. Lo, I am death. With aim as sure as steady all beings that are and shall be, I draw near me. I call thee. I require thee. Man, be ready. Why build upon this fragile life? Now hear me. Where is the power that does not own me? Fear me. Who can escape me when I bend my bow? I pull this string. Thou liest in dust below, smitten by the barb my ministering angels bear me. Come to the Dance of Death. Come hither, even the last, the lowliest, of all rank and station, who will not come shall be by scourges driven. I hold no parley with disinclination. List to Jan Freyer, who preaches of salvation, and high ye to your penitential post, for who delays, who lingers, he is lost, and handed o'er to hopeless reprobation. I, to my dance, my mortal dance, have brought two nymphs, all bright in beauty and in bloom. They listened, fear struck, to my songs, me thought, and truly songs like mine are tinged with gloom. But neither rosy at hues nor flowers perfume will now avail them, nor the thousand charms of worldly vanity. They fill my arms, they are my brides, their bridal bed, the tomb. And since, tis certain, then, that we must die, no hope, no chance, no prospect of redress, be it our constant aim unswervingly to tread God's narrow path of holiness. For he is first, last, midst. Oh, let us press onwards. And when death's monetary glance shall summon us to join his mortal dance, even then shall hope and joy our footsteps bless. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Death by Rainer Maria Rilke, read for Libragogs.org by Chad Horner. Before us great death stands, our fate held close within his quiet hands, when, with proud joy, we lift life's red wine to drink deep of the mystic shining cup, and ecstasy through all our being leaps. Death by his head it weeps. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Desire by H. Thompson Rich, read for Libragogs.org by Newgate Novelist. I would send these dreams of yours and mine reborning. I would send our love out to seek noble flight over the interminable mountains of the morning, over the endless oceans of the night. I would put the lightness of it into laughter. I would put the sorrow of it into song that should go echoing on for ages after, that should make glad the world whole eons long. I would tell in deathless paint the glory of it. I would tell in immutable stone its majesty to hail it from the earth. I would blow it and hold a light above it, to temper it with immortality. I would spin it to the heavens, span on span. Were I but? Oh, a little more than man. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Durge of Victory, Sonnet. From Unhappy Far Off Things, by Lord Dunsonay. Read for Libragogs.org by Dale Grothman. Lift not thy trumpet victory to the sky, nor through battalions, nor by batteries blow, but over hollows full of old wire go. There among the dregs of war the long dead lie with wasted iron that the guns passed by when they went eastward like a tide at flow. There blow thy trumpet that the dead may know who waited for thy coming victory. It is not we that have deserved thy wreath. They waited there among the towering weeds, the deep mud burned under the thermite's breath, the winter cracked the bones that no man heeds. Hundreds of nights flamed by, the seasons passed, and thou last come to them, at last, at last. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Noble on earth, all but a king in hell, I am done one with a tale to tell. Hot leapt the dawn from deep plutonian fires, and ran like blood among the twinkling spires. The market quickened, carts came rattling down, good human music roared about the town. And come, they cried, and by the best of Spain's great fireskin fruits with cold and steaming veins. Others, the man who'd make a lordly dish, would buy my speckled for my silver fish. And some, I'll stitch you raiment to the rule. And some, I sell you water of Stumbul, and I have lupice for your love to wear, pearls for her neck, and amber for her hair. Death has its gleam, they swing before me still, the shapes and sounds and colors of Seville. For there I learned to love the plot, the fight, the masquer's cloak, the ladder set for flight, the stern pursuit, the rapier's glint of death, the scent of starlit roses, beauty's breath, the music and the passion and the prize, Aragon lips and Andalusian eyes. This day a democrat I scoured the town, courting the next I brought a princess down. Now in some lady's paneled chamber hid, achieved what love approves, and laws forbid, now walked and whistled around the sleepy farms, and clasped the dulcinea in my arms. I was the true, the grand idealist. My light could pierce the pretty golden mist that hides from common souls the stardier climbs. I loved a small mendu ten thousand times. Rose to the blue through I umfant, curved my bow, set high the mark, and brought an angel low, and laced with that brave body and shining soul, learned how to live, then learned to love the whole. And I first broke that jungle dark and a dense, which hides the silver house of common sense, and dissipated that disastrous lie, which makes a god of stuffless unity, and draped the dark behind me and revealed a pagan sunrise on a Christian field. My legend tells I once, by passion moved, I slew the father of a girl I loved, then summoned, like an old and hard and sinner, the brand new statue of the dead to dinner. My ribbled guests, with Spanish wine aflame, were most delighted when that statue came, bowed to the party, made a little speech, and bore me off beyond their human reach. Well, priests must flourish, and the truth must pale, a very pious, entertaining tale. But this, believe, I struck a ringing blow at sour authorities' ancestral show, and stirred the sawdust, understuffing all, the sceptred, or the surplus ritual. I willed my happiness, kept bright and brave my thoughts and deeds, this side the accursed grave. Life was a ten-course banquet after all, and neatly rounded by my funeral. Pale guest, why strip the roses from your brow, we hope to feast till morning. Who knocks now? Twelve o'clock don't warn. In came he, that shining, tall and cold authority, whose marble lips smiled down on lips that prey, and took my hand, and I was led away. End of poem, this recording is in a public domain. The Dons of Spain by Henry Lawson Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk The eagle screams at the back of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round, must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found. For as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish main, the national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain. She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, as the Christian world might know. We murder millions, but thank the Lord, we only starve them slow. The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts remain. We fight for freedom and God and gold, and the Spaniards fight for Spain. We fought with the strength of the moral right, and they as their ships went down. They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help them drown. It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain. The church was the church, and the pope the pope, but the Spaniards fought for Spain. If Providence struck for the honest thief, at times in the battle's din. If ever it struck at the hypocrite, well that's where the Turks came in. But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain. There's something great in the wrong that dies, as the Spaniards die, for Spain. The foes of Spain may be kin to us, who are English, heart and soul, and proud of our national righteousness, and proud of the lands we stole. But we yet might pause while those brave men die, and the death drink pledge again. For the sake of the past, if you're doomed, say I, may your death be a grand one, Spain. Then here's to the bravest of freedom's foes, whoever with death have stood, for the sake of the courage to die on steel, as their fathers died on wood. And here's a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again, for the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the dawns of Spain. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. I think that he must die thereof, unless ever and again across the dreariness. There came a sudden glimpse of spirit faces, a fragrant breath to tell of flowery places and wider oceans breaking on the shore, from which the hearts of men are always sore. It lies beyond endeavor, neither prayer nor fasting, nor much wisdom when it there. Seeing how many prophets and wise men have sought for it, and still returned again, with hope undone. But only the strange power of unsought beauty in some casual hour can build a bridge of light, or sound, or form, to lead you out of all this strife and storm. When of some beauty we are grown apart, till from its very glory's mind most heart outleaps a sudden beam of larger light into our souls. All things are seen aright, amid the blinding pillar of its gold. Seven times more true than what for truth we hold in vulgar hours. The miracle is done, and for one little moment we are one with the eternal stream of loveliness that flows so calm, aloft from all distress, yet leaps and lives around us as a fire, making us faint with overstrong desire to sport and swim forever in its deep. Only a moment. Oh, but we shall keep our vision still. One moment was enough. We know we are not made of mortal stuff, and we can bear all trials that come after. The hate of men, and the fools loud beast shall laughter, and nature's rule and cruelty's unclean. For we have seen the glory we have seen. This recording is in the public domain. Still will the tamaracks be raining after the rain has ceased, and still will there be robins in the stubble brown sheep upon the warm green hill. Spring will not hail, nor autumn falter. Nothing will know that you are gone, saving alone some sullen plowland, none but yourself sets foot upon. Saving the mayweed and the pigweed, nothing will know that you are dead, these and perhaps a useless wagon standing beside some tumbled shed. Oh, there will pass with your great passing little of beauty, not your own. Only the light from common water, only the grace from simple stone. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Born with a monocle he stares at life, and sends his soul on pensive promenades. He pays a high price for discarded gods, and then regills them to renew their strife. His calm mustache points to the ironies, and a fawn-colored laugh sucks in the night, full of the riot mists that turn to white in brief lost battles with banalities. Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread, for blue pumps that are ardent for the air features our fixtures when the face is fled, and we are left the husks of tarnished hair. But he is one who lusts uncomforted to kiss the naked phrase quite unaware. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. Streams and skies so blue, call with my heart and longing, dear, for you. I see thee sad with every wind that grieves. Behold thy cheeks and autumn's blushing leaves. Thy laugh I hear when come the rippling rills, sparkling and gay down the grassy hills. Ah, it is love that sees alone thy form in every rose adoth the veil adorn. Ah, it is love when all the summer sky seems but reflected beauty from thine eye. I hear thy voice in cadences so sweet, when birds that love in woody places meet. Thy loving smile I see revealed again in every sunburst following the rain. When o'er the land soft steals the breath of June, and happy birds within the treetops tune, then hand in hand again to love's sweet lays, I walk with thee as in the olden days. The strands of gold, the sun-guards gleaming hair, is as the light within thy tresses rare. The white-sailed moonship gliding on the night has gleaned her beauty from thy forehead white. But food of dreams love cannot satisfy, nor memories feed the starving heart. Thus I, lovelorn, with weary wings toward heaven's shore, beating for entrance gains God's golden door. Longing for thee, earth's ways and dreams I tread, by thy white hand along its pathways led, counting the hours till on celestial strands, I'll kiss again thy lips, thine eyes, thy hands. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fragmentary Blue by Robert Frost Red for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Why make so much of fragmentary blue? In here or there a bird or butterfly or flower or wearing stone or open eye, when heaven presents in sheets the solid hue. Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven, as yet. Though some savants make earth include the sky, and blue so far above us comes so high, it only gives our wish for blue a wet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Georgia Dusk by Gene Tumor Red for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson The sky lazily disdaining to pursue the setting sun. Too indolent to hold a lengthened tournament for flashing gold, passively darkens for night's barbecue. A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, an orgy for some genius of the south, with blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth, surprised in making folk-songs from soul-sounds. The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz saws stop, and silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill, soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill their early promise of a bumper crop. Smoke from the pure middle sawdust pile curls up, blue ghosts of trees tearing low where only chips and stumps are left to show, the solid proof of former domicile. Meanwhile the men with vestiges of pomp raise memories of king and caravan. High priests, an ostrich and a juju man go singing through the footpaths of the swamp. Their voices rise, the pine trees are guitars, strumming pine needles fall like sheets of rain. Their voices rise, the course of the cane is caroling a vesper to the stars. O singers, resinous and soft your songs, above the sacred whisper of the pines, give virgin lips to cornfield concubines, bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. God's Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp The world is charged with a grandeur of God. It will flame out like shining from shook foil. It gathers to a greatness like the ooze of oil crushed. Why do men then not now wreck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, and all is seared with trade, bleared, smeared with toil, and where's man smudge and shares man's smell? The soil is bare now, nor can foot feel being shod. And for all this nature is never spent. There lives the dearest freshness, deep down things, and though the last lights off the black west went oh morning at the brown brink eastward springs, because the holy ghost over the bent world broods with warm breast and with aww bright wings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Griefs by Emily Dickson Read for LibriVox.org by Ahtule Simit Griefs. I measure every grief I meet with the analytic eyes. I wonder if it waits like mine or has an easier size. I wonder if they part long or did it just begin. I could not tell the date of mine. It feels so oh the pain. I wonder if it hurts to live and if they have to dry and no matter could they choose between they would not rather die. I wonder if one years have filed some thousands on the cause of early hurt if such a lapse could give them any pause. Or would they go on aching still through centuries above enlighten to a larger pain by contrast with love. The grieved are many I am told. The reason deeper lies. Death is but one and comes but once and only nails the eyes. There's grief of want and grief of cold. A sort they call despair. There's banishment from native eyes inside of native air. And through I may not guess the kind correctly yet to me appears in comforted affords in passing cavalry. To note the fashions of the cross of those that stand alone. Still fascinated to presume that some are like my own. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Her Mouth by Red4LiberVox.org by Chad Horner. Her mouth is like the mouth of a fine bust that cannot utter sound nor breathe nor kiss but that had once from life received all this. Which shaped its subtle curves and ever must from fullness and past knowledge dwell alone a thing apart, a parable and stone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I cannot deem why men toil so for fame. By Alexander Smith. Red4LiberVox.org by Sonja. I cannot deem why men toil so for fame. A porter is a porter, though his load be the ocean world, and although his road be down the ages. What is in a name? Ah, this our spirits curse to strive and seek. Although its heart is rich in pearls and oars, the sea complains upon a thousand shores. Sea like we moan for ever. We are weak. We ever hunger for diviner stores. I cannot say I have a thirsting deep for human fame nor is my spirit bowed to be a mummy above ground to keep for stare and handling of the vulgar crowd defrauded of my natural rest and sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In a Disused Graveyard by Robert Frost. Red4LiberVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. The living come with grassy tread to read the gravestones on the hill. The graveyard draws the living still, but never anymore the dead. The verses in it say and say, the ones who living come today to read the stones and go away. Tomorrow dead will come to stay. So sure of death the marbles rhyme, yet can't help marking all the time how no one dead will seem to come. What is it men are shrinking from? It would be easy to be clever and tell the stones men hate to die and have stopped dying now forever. I think they would believe the lie. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Indeed indeed I cannot tell by Henry David Thurow. Red4LiberVox.org read by Angela Holden. Indeed indeed I cannot tell though I ponder on it well which were easier to state all my love or all my hate. Surely surely thou will trust me when I say thou dost disgust me. Oh I hate thee with the hate that would feign annihilate. Yet sometimes against my will, my dear friend, I love thee still. It were treason to our love and ascend to God above, one iota to a bait of a pure impartial hate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Irish skies. In London hear the streets are grey and grey the sky above. I wish I were in Ireland to see the skies I love. Pearl cloud, buff cloud, the colour of a dove. All day I travel English streets, but in my dreams I tread the far glen cullen road and see the soft sky overhead. Grey clouds, white clouds, the wind has shepherded. At night the London lamps shine bright, but what are they to me? I've seen the moonlight and glen you, the stars above glen cre. The lamps of heaven give light enough for me. The city in the winter time put on a shroud of smoke, but the sky above the three rock was blue as Mary's cloak, ruffled like dove's wings when the wind awoke. I dream I see the Wicklow hills by evening sunlight kissed, and every glen and valley there brimful of radiant mist, the jeweled sky topazed an amethyst. I wake to see the London streets, the somber sky above, God's blessing on the far off roads and on the skies I love. Pearl feather, grey feather, wings of a dove. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Italia by Oscar Wilde, read for LibriVox.org by Rob Marland in Venice. Italia, thou art fallen, though with sheen of battlespears thy clamorous armies stride from the North Alps to the Sicilian Tide. I, fallen, though the nations hail thee queen, because rich gold in every town is seen, and on thy sapphire lake in tossing pride of wind-filled vans, thy myriad galleys ride beneath one flag of red and white and green. Oh, fair and strong. Oh, strong and fair in vain, look southward where Rome's desecrated town lies mourning for her god-anointed king. Look heavenward, shall God allow this thing? Nay, but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down and smite the spoiler with the sword of pain. Venice. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is not beauty I demand by George Darley, read for LibriVox.org by Frank Duncan. It is not beauty I demand a crystal brow, the moon's despair, nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, nor a mermaid's yellow pride of hair. Tell me not of your starry eyes, your lips that seem on rose's fed, your breast where cupid trembling lies, nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, a bloomy pair of a meal-cheeks, like heaps in her rudiest hours, a breath that softer music speaks. Then summer winds, a wooing flowers. These are but gods, nay, water-lips, coral beneath the ocean stream, whose brink when your adventurer sips, full off he perished on them, and water-classic cheeks but incense offed. That wave hot youth to fields of blood. Did Helen's breast, though near so soft, do grease or ilium any good? Eyes can with baleful adore burn. Poison can breath the earth's perfumed. There's many a white hand holds and earn. With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows, there's not within. They are but empty cells for pride. He who serens hair would win is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me instead of a beauty's bust, a tender heart, a loyal mind. Which with temptation I could trust, yet never linked with error find. One in whose gentle bosom I could pour my secret heart of woes, like the care-burdened honeyfly that hides his murmurs in the rose. My earthly comforter, whose love so indefeasible might be, that when my spirit won above, hers could not stay for sympathy. Lady Clara, veer the veer, of me you shall not win renown. You thought to break a country-heart, for past time ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired. The daughter of a hundred earls you are not one to be desired. Lady Clara, veer the veer, I know you proud to bear your name. Your pride is yet no mate for mine, too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake a heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower is worth a hundred coats of arms. Lady Clara, veer the veer, some meek a pupil you must find. For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, and my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara, veer the veer, you put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown, since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies, a great enchantress you may be. But there was that across his throat, which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara, veer the veer, when thus he met his mother's view, she had the passions of her kind, she spake some certain truth of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word that scares his pit for you to hear. Her manners had not that repose, which stems the case of veer the veer. Lady Clara, veer the veer, there stands a spectre in your hall. The guilt of blood is at your door. You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, to make him trust his modest worth, and last you fixed a vacant stare, and slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara, veer the veer, from young blue heavens above us bend, the grand old gardener and his wife smile at the claims of long descend. However it be, it seems to me this only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronates, and simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara, veer the veer, you pine among your halls and towers, the languid light of your proud eyes is weary of the rolling hours, englowing health with boundless wealth but sickening of a vague disease. You know so ill to deal with time, you needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara, veer the veer, if time be heavy on your hands, are there no beggars at your gate, nor any poor about your lands? Oh, teach the orphan boy to read, or teach the orphan girl to sew. Pray heaven for a human heart, and let the foolish yeoman go. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Last night I saw the shadows lit away, and pearls about her shoulders strung, Ultraman haunts of home among. She came as if she knew them not, their lay, old hope in her young eyes, and gay her speech came in some laughing tongue. I who had watched the stolen march of days, and would not see the teft which was their sign, moved happily to meet her, moved with praise, for this the witchery that made her fair, but yet the pretty hand that lay in mine was not the one I love upon my hair. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grothman. A bear, having spread him a notable feast, invited a famished fox to the place. I've killed me, quote he, an edible beast, as ever distended the girth of priest with spread of religion or inward grace. To my den I conveyed her, I bled her and flayed her, I hung up her skin to dry, then lay her naked to keep her cool, on a slab of ice from a frozen pool, and there we will eat her, you and I. The fox accepts in a way they walk, beguiling the time with courteous talk. You'd never have suspected to see them smile, the bear was thinking, the blessed while. Now when his guest should be off his guard with feasting hard, he'd give him a wipe that would spoil his style. You'd never have thought to see them bow the fox was reflecting deeply now, he would best proceed to circumvent his host and prig, the entire pig, or other bird to the same intent. When strength and cunning in love combine, be sure it is more than merely dine. The while these biters ply the lip a mile ahead, the muse shall skip. The poet suppose she best may serve, he inside the den, if she have the nerve. Behold, laid out in dark recess, a ghastly goat in stark undress, pallid and still on her gillet bed, and undisputably very dead. Her skin depends from a couple of pins, and there the most singular statement begins. For all at once the butchered beast, with easy grace for one deceased, up reared her head, looked around and said, very distinctly for one so dead. The knights are sharp and the sheets are thin. I find it uncommonly cold herein. Dead goat emerging from den, I ask not how this was wrought. All miracles surpass my thought. They're vexing, you say, and dementing? Peace, peace, they're none of my inventing. But lest too much mystery embarrass this true history, I'll not relate how that this goat stood up, and stamped her feet, to inform him, with, what's the word, I mean, to warm him. Nor how she plucked her rough capote from off the pegs, where the Bruin threw it, and or her quaking body drew it. Nor how each act could so befall, I'll only swear she did them all. Then lingered pensively in the grot, as if she something had forgot, till a humble voice, and a voice of pride, were heard in murmurs of love outside. Then, like a rocket, set aflight, she sprang, and streaked it for the light. Ten million million years, and a day, have rolled since these events away. But still the peasant at fall of night, belated there near, is off to right, by sounds of a phantom bear in flight, a breaking of branches under the hill, the noise of a going when all is still, and hence asleep on the perch, they say, cackle sometimes in a startled way, as if they were dreaming a dream that mocks the lope and whiz of fleeting fox. Half were taught, and teach to youth, and praise by rote, is not but merely stands for truth. So of my goat she's merely designed to represent the truth immortal, to this extent. Dead she may be, and skinned frappe, hid in a dreadful den away. Pray to the churches, any will do, except the church of me and you. The simplest miracle, even then, will get her up, and about again. HAND OF POEM THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN AND LUCY SEES TO BE, BUT SHE IS IN HER GREEVE UND-O, THE DIFFERENCE TO ME, WILLYM WORDSWORD, AND OF POEM THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. OF THE WAVES Which of their dark abysses flow at this sweet hour? All things beside, and amorous pairs to convert creep, the swans that brush the evening tide. Homeward in snowy couples keep, in his green den, the murmuring seal, close by his sleek companion lies, while singingly, we too, bedward steel, and close and fruitless sleep our eyes, and bowers of love men take their rest, and loveless bowers we sigh alone. With bosom friends are others blessed, but we have none, but we have none. END OF POEM THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN MILDOORS by Carl Sandberg redforlibbervox.org by Winston Tharp You never come back. I say good-bye when I see you going in the doors, the hopeless open doors that call and wait and take you in then for how many cents a day, and how many cents for the sleepy eyes and fingers. I say good-bye because I know they tap your wrists, in the dark, in the silence, day by day, and all the blood of you drop by drop. When you were old, before you were young, you never come back. END OF POEM THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN MARICLES by Walt Whitman redforlibbervox.org by Samari Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles. Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, or dart my sight or the roofs of houses toward the sky, or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, or stand under trees in the woods, or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love, or sit at table at dinner with the rest, or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, or watch honeybees busy around the hive of a summer for noon, or animals feeding in the fields, or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring. These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, the whole referring yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle. Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same. Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle. The fishes that swim, the rocks, the motion of the waves, the ships with the men in them, what stranger miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. October by Robert Seymour Bridges. Read for LibriVox.org by Ian King. April a dance in play, met with his lover May, where she came garlanded. The blossoming boughs overhead were thrilled to bursting by, the dazzle from the sky, and the wild music there that shook the odorous air. Each moment some new birth hastened to deck the earth in the gay sunbeams, between their kisses dreams, and dream and kiss were rife with laughter of mortal life. But this late day of golden fall is still as a picture upon a wall or a poem in a book lying open unread, or whatever else is shriined when the virgin hath vanished. Footsteps of eternal mind on the path of the dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Of all the sounds dispatched abroad, there's not a charge to me, like that old measure in the boughs, that phraseless melody. The wind does, working like a hand, whose fingers comb the sky, then quiver down with tufts of tune permitted gods and me. In heritance it is to us beyond the art to earn, beyond the trait to take away by robber since the gain, is gotten out of fingers and inner than the bone, hid golden for the whole of days, and even in the urn. I cannot vouch the merry dust do not arise in play, in some odd fashion of its own, some cointer holiday. When winds go round and round in bands and throm upon the door, and birds take places overhead to bear them orchestra. I crave him grace of summer boughs if such an outcast be, who never heard that fleshless chant rise solemn on the tree, as if some caravan of sound, off deserts in the sky, had parted rank then knit and swept in seamless company. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Parable of the Old Man and the Young by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Fabiola. Parable of the Old Man and the Young. So Abram rose and cleaved the wood, and went, and took the fire with him and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first burned speck and said, My father, behold the preparations, fire and iron, but wear the lamb for this burnt offering. Then Abram bound the youth with bells and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, and stretched for the knife to slay his son, when law, an angel called him out of heaven, saying, Lay not, die and upon the lad, neither do anything to him. Behold, Abram caught in a ticket by its horns, offered Abram of bride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, and alph, the seed of Europe, one by one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Phoenix from the Pente by George Darley, read for LibriVox.org by Frank Duncan. O blessed unfabled incense tree, that burns in glorious araby, with red scent chalicing the air, till earth life grow, Elysian there. Half buried to her flaming breast, in this bright tree, she makes her nest. Hundred suned phoenix, when she must crumble at length to hoary dust. Her gorgeous deathbed, her rich pyre, burnt up with aromatic fire, her urn, sight high from spoiler men, her birthplace when self-born again, the mountainless green wilds among, here ends she, her, an echoing song, with amber tears and odorous sighs, mourned by the desert where she dies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Power of Hell by John Legay Brurton, read for LibriVox.org by D. C. S. Fene. There is no place, he said, for love or pity here. We dread and only dread, the moods that once were dear. We break the ancient spell, an arm to take our part, against the power of hell, and hell was in his heart. This recording is in the public domain. Rome Unvisited by Oscar Wilde, read for LibriVox.org by Rob Marland in Arona. Rome Unvisited 1. The corn has turned from grey to red, since first my spirit wandered forth from the drear cities of the north, and to Italia's mountains fled. And here I set my face towards home, for all my pilgrimage is done. Although, me thinks, yon blood-red sun marshals the way to Holy Rome. O blessed lady, who dost hold upon the seven hills thy reign. O mother without blot or stain, crowned with bright crowns of triple gold. O Roma, Roma, at thy feet I lay this barren gift of song. For, ah, the way is steep and long, that leads unto thy sacred street. 2. And yet what joy it were for me to turn my feet unto the south, and journeying towards the Tibermouth, to kneel again at Fia Soleil. And wandering through the tangled pines that break the gold of Arno's stream, to see the purple mist and gleam of mourning on the Apennines. By many a vineyard hidden home, orchard and olive-garden grey, till from the drear companion's way the seven hills bear up the dome. 3. A pilgrim from the northern seas, what joy for me to seek alone the wondrous temple and the throne of him who holds the awful keys. 4. When, bright with purple and with gold, come priest and holy cardinal, and born above the heads of all, the gentle shepherd of the fold. O joy to see before I die the only god-annointed king, and hear the silver trumpet's ring a triumph as he passes by. Or at the brazen pillard shrine holds high the mystic sacrifice, and shows his god to human eyes beneath the veil of bread and wine. 4. For, lo, what changes time can bring? The cycles of revolving years may free my heart from all its fears, and teach my lips a song to sing. Before Yonfield of trembling gold is garnered into dusty sheaves, or hear the autumn's scarlet leaves flutter as birds are down the wall. I may have run the glorious race and caught the torch while yet a flame, and called upon the holy name of him who now doth hide his face. 5. San Miniatto by Oscar Wilde Read by Rob Marland for LibriVox.org in the abbey of San Miniatto, Almonte in Florence. See, I have climbed the mountainside up to this holy house of God, where once that angel painter trod who saw the heavens opened wide, and thrown upon the crescent moon the virginal white queen of grace. Mary, could I but see thy face death could not come at all too soon. Oh, crowned by God with thorns and pain, mother of Christ, oh mystic wife, my heart is weary of this life and over sad to sing again. Oh, crowned by God with love and flame, oh crowned by Christ the holy one. Oh, listen, ear the searching sun, show to the world my sin and shame. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. LibriVox.org by Wes Freeman. Once I freed myself of my duties to tasks and people and went down to the cleansing sea. The air was like wine to my spirit. The sky bathed my eyes with infinity. The sun followed me, casting golden snares on the tide. In the ocean, masses of molten surfaces, faintly gray blue, sang to my heart. Then I found myself all here in body and brain, and all there on the shore, content to be myself, free and strong and enlarged. Then I knew the depths of myself or the depths of space, and all living beings were of those depths, my brothers and sisters, and that by going inward and away from duties, cities, streetcars and greetings, I was dipping behind all surfaces, piercing cities and people, and entering in and possessing them, more than a brother, the surge of all life in them and in me. So I swore I would be myself there by the ocean, and I swore I would cease to neglect myself, but would take myself as my mate, solemn marriage and deep, midnight's of thought to be, long mornings of sacred communion and twilight's of talk, myself and I, long-parted, clasping and married till death. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. Sorrow for a dead desire. Lo, the April marvel stirs the earth again. Break my heart of beauty that would not break of pain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Spirits Summoned West by D.H. Lawrence. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. England seems full of graves to me, full of graves. Women I loved and cherished, like my mother, yet I had to tell them to die. England seems covered with graves to me, women's graves, women who were gentle, and who loved me, and whom I loved and told to die. Women with the beautiful eyes of the old days, belief in love and sorrow of such belief. Hush my love then, hush, hush and die, my dear. Women of the older generation, who knew the full doom of loving and not being able to take back, who understood at last what it was to be told to die. Now that the graves are made and covered, now that in England pansies and such like grow on the graves of women, now that in England is silence, where before was a moving of soft-skirted women, women with eyes that were gentle and old in belief in love, now then that all their yearning is hushed and covered over with earth. England seems like one grave to me, and I, I set on this high American desert, with dark-wrapped rocky mountains motionless squatting around in a ring, remembering I told them to die, to sink into the grave in England, the gentle-need women. So now I whisper, come away, come away from the place of graves, come west, women, women whom I loved and told to die. Come back to me now, now the divided yearning is over, now you are husbandless indeed, no more husband to cherish like a child and wrestle with for the prize of perfect love, no more children to launch in a world you mistrust, now you need no in part, no longer, or carry the burden of a man on your heart, or the burden of man writ large. Now you are disembered and of man, and a man come back to me. Now you are free of the toils of a would-be perfect love, come to me and be still. Come back then, you who are wives and mothers and always virgins overlooked. Come back then, mother, my love whom I told to die. It was only I who saw the virgin you that had no home, the overlooked virgin my love. You overlooked her too, now that the grave is made of mother and wife, now that the grave is made and littered over with turf, delicate overlooked virgin, come back to me and be still, be glad, I didn't tell you to die for nothing. I wanted the virgin you to be home at last in my heart, inside my innermost heart where the virgin in woman comes home to a man, the homeless virgin who never in all her life could find the way home to that difficult innermost place in a man. Come west, come home, women I've loved for gentleness, for the virginal you. Find the way now that she never could find in life, so I told you to die. Virginal first and last is woman, at this last my love, my many a love, you whom I loved for gentleness, come home to me. They are many and I love them, shall always love them, and they know it, the virgins, and my heart is glad to have them at last, now that the wife and mother and mistress is buried on earth, in English earth come home to me, come west to me, for virgins are not exclusive of virgins as wives are of wives, and motherhood is jealous, but in virginity, jealousy does not enter touse. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Thou asked, and where I went it, when my fleeting shadow passed from thee, am I not concluded now and ended, have not life and love been granted me? Ask, when now those nightingales are singing, who of late on the soft nights of May set thine ears with soul-throat music ringing, only while their love lived lasted day. Find I him, from whom I had to sever, doubt it not, we met, and we are one. There, where what is joined is joined forever, there, where tears are never more to run. There thou too shall live with us together, when thou too hast borne the love we bore. There, from sin delivered, dwells my father, trekked by murder's bloody sword no more. There he feels it was no dream deceiving, lured him star-words to uplift his eye. God doth match his gifts to man's believing, believe, and thou shalt find the holy nigh. All thou augurous hear of lovely seeming, there shall find fulfilment in its day. There, o friend, be wondering, there be dreaming. Lofty thought lies oft in childish play. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To Autumn by William Blake, redfallyprovoked.org by Ian King O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained with the blood of the grape. Pass not, but sit beneath my shady roof. There thou mayest rest, and tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe. And all the daughters of the year shall dance. Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. The narrow bud opens her beauties to the sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins. Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve, till clustering summer breaks forth into singing. And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head. The spirits of the air live on the smells of fruit, and joy, with pinions light, roves round the gardens, or sits singing in the trees. Thus sang the jolly autumn as he sat. Then rose, girded himself, and over the bleak hills fled from our sight, but left his golden load. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Double Transformation by Oliver Goldsmith, redfallyprovoked.org by Larry Wilson A Tale Secluded from domestic strife, Jack Bookworm led a college life. A fellowship at twenty-five made him the happiest man alive. He drank his glass, and cracked his choke, and freshmen wondered as he spoke. Such pleasures unalloyed with care, could any accident impair? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Arswayne arrived at thirty-six? Oh! had the archer Nair come down to ravage in a country town, or Flavia been content to stop at triumphs in a Fleet Street shop? Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze, or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. Oh! but let exclamation cease! Her presence banished all his peace. So with decorum all things carried, miss frowned and blushed, and then was married. The honeymoon, like lightning, flew. The second brought its transports too. A third, a fourth, were not amiss. The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss. But when a twelve-month passed away, Jack found his goddess made of clay. Found half the charms that decked her face arose from powder, shreds, or lace. But still the worst remained behind. That very face had robbed her mind. Skilled in no other arts was she, but dressing, patching, repartee, and just as humour rose or fell, by turns a slattern or a bell. It's true she dressed with modern grace, half naked at a ball or race, but when at home, at board her bed, five greasy night-caps wrapped her head. Could so much beauty condescend to be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain-lectures bring to decency so fine thing? In short, by night twas fits or fretting. By day twas gating or croquetting. Fawned to be seen she kept a bevy of powdered coxcombs at her levee. The squire and the captain took their stations and twenty other near-relations. Jack sucked his pipe and often broke a sigh in suffocating smoke, while all their hours were passed between insulting repartee or spleen. Thus, as her faults each day were known, he thinks her features coarser grown. He fancies every vice she shows or thins her lip or points her nose, whenever rage or envy rise, how wide her mouth, how wild her eyes. He knows not how, but so it is, her face is grown a-knowing fizz. And though her fobs are wondrous civil, he thinks her ugly as the devil. Now to perplex all the ravelled noose as each a different way pursues, while sullen or loquacious strife promise to hold them on for life. That dire disease whose ruthless power withers the beauty's transient flower. Low, the smallpox whose horrid glare levelled his terrors at the fair, and rifling every youthful grace left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, reflected now a perfect fright. Each former art she vainly tries to bring back luster to her eyes. In vain she tries her pastes and creams to smooth her skin or hide it seams. Her country beau and city cousins, lovers no more, flew off by dozens. The squire himself was seen to yield, and even the captain quit the field. Poor madam, now condemned to hack the rest of life with anxious Jack, perceiving others fairly flown, attempted to please him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold her present face surpassed the old. With modesty her cheeks are dyed, humility displaces pride. For Todd refinery is seen, a person ever neatly clean. No more presuming on her sway, she learns good nature every day. Serenely gay and strictly in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Let the soul desires. faith's frail candle before the night, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Let the soul desires, by Augusta Theodosia Drain, 1823-1894, read for LibriVox.org. There thou wilt show me what my soul desired. There thou wilt give me at once, o my life, but thou gavest me the other day. Spiritual canticle, stands a thirty-eight. There is a rapture that my soul desires. There is something that I cannot name. I know not after what my soul aspires, nor guess from whence the restless longing came. But ever from my childhood have I felt it, in all things beautiful and all things gay, and ever has its gentle unseen presence fallen, like a shadow cloud across my way. It is the melody of all sweet music. In all fair forms it is the hidden grace. In all I love, a something that escapes me, flies my pursuit, and ever veils its face. I see it in the woodland's summer beauty. I hear it in the breathing of the air. I stretch my hands to feel for it, and grasp it. But ah, too well I know. It is not there. In sunset hours, when all the earth is golden, and rosy clouds are hastening to the west, I catch a waving gleam, and then tis vanished, and the old longing once more fills my breast. It is not pain, although the fire consumes me, bound up with memories of my happiest years. It steals into my deepest joys, O mystery! It mingles, too, with all my saddest tears. Once, only once, there rose the heavy curtain, the clouds rolled back, and for too brief a space I drank in joy as from a living fountain, and seemed to gaze upon it face to face. But of that day and hour who shall venture with lips untouched by seraph's fire to tell? I saw thee, O my life! I heard, I touched thee, then o'er my soul once more the darkness fell. The darkness fell, and all the glory vanished. I strove to call it back, but all in vain. O rapture, to have seen it for a moment! O anguish, that it never came again! That lightning flash of joy that seemed eternal! Was it indeed but wandering fancies dream? Ah, surely no! That day the heavens opened, and on my soul there fell a golden gleam. O thou, my life! Give me what then thou gavest. No angel vision do I seek. I seek no ecstasy of mystic rapture. Not, not, my lord, my life, but only thee. That golden gleam hath purged my sight, revealing in the fair ray reflected from above, thyself, beyond all sight, beyond all feeling, the hidden beauty, and the hidden love. As the heart panteth for the water-brooks, and seeks the shades whence cooling fountains thirst. Even so for thee, O lord, my spirit fainteth, thyself alone hath power to quench its thirst. Give me what then thou gavest. For I seek it no longer in thy creatures, as of old. I strive no more to grasp the empty shadow. The secret of my life is found and told. The world's a bubble, and the life of man less than a span, in his conception wretched from the womb so to the tomb. Cursed from the cradle, and brought up to years with cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, but limbs the water, or but writes in dust. Yet since with sorrow here we live oppressed, what life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools to dando fools. The rural parts are turned into a den of savage men, and wares the city from all vice so free, but may be termed the worst of all the three. Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head. Those that live single take it for a curse, or do things worse. Some would have children, those that have them moan, or wish them gone. What is it then to have, or have no wife, but single throldom, or a double strife? Our own affection still at home to please is a disease, to cross the seas to any foreign soil, perils, and toil. Wors with their noise of fright us, when they cease we are worse in peace. What then remains, but that we still should cry not to be born, or being born to die? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. You came and went by H. Thompson Rich, read for the Brevox.org by Newgate novelist. All as a bird sails through the silent night on swift wings bent, leaving a wake of music in its flight. You came and went. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.