 To a snowflake, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this labor-vox recording is in the public domain. What heart could have thought you? Past are divisal, o' filigree petal, fashion so purely, fragility surely, from what paradisal, imagineless metal, too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you? From argitine vapour, God was my shaper, passing surmizel, he hammered, he wrought me, from curled silver vapour, to lust of his mind, Thou couldst not have thought me so purely so palely, tinley surely, mightily, fraily, insculpted and embossed, with his hammer of wind and his graver of frost, Francis Thompson, end of poem. To a daisy, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this labor-vox recording is in the public domain. Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, like all created things, secrets from me, and stand a barrier to eternity, and I, how can I praise thee well and wide, from where I dwell upon the hither side, though little veil, for so great mystery, when shall I penetrate all things and thee, and then look back, for this I must abide, till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled, literally between me and the world, then I shall drink from in beneath a spring, and from a poet's side shall read his book, O daisy mine, what will it be to look, from God's side even, of such a simple thing. Alice, minell. End of Poem Lucifer in Starlight, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this labor-vox recording is in the public domain. On a starred night, Prince Lucifer, a prose, tired of his dark dominion, swung the fiend, above the rolling ball in cloud-part screened, where sinners hugged their scepter of repose. For prey to his hot fit of pride were those, and now upon his western wing he leaned. Now his huge bulk, or afric sands, careened. Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows, soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars. With memory of the old revolt from Ah, he reached a middle height, and at the stars, which are the brain of heaven, he looked and sank. Around the ancient track marched rank on rank the army of unalterable law. George Meredith End of Poem The celestial surgeon, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this labor-vox recording is in the public domain. If I have faltered more or less, in my great task of happiness, if I have moved among my race, and shown no glorious morning face, if beams from happy human eyes have moved me not, if morning skies, books and my food, and summer rain, knocked on my sullen heart in vain, Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take, and stab my spirit broad awake, or, Lord, if too obdurate I, choose thou before that spirit die, a piercing pain, a killing sin, and to my dead heart run them in. Robert Louis Stevenson End of Poem The kingdom of God, poetry of today, an anthology by various authors, this labor-vox recording is in the public domain, in no strange land. O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee. Inapprehensible, we clutch thee, does the fish soar to find the ocean, the eagle plunge to find the air, that we ask of the stars in motion, if they have rumour of thee there. Not where the wheeling systems darken, and our benumbed conceiving soars, the drift opinions would, we hearken, beaths at our own clay-shuttered doors, the angels keep their ancient places, turn but a stone, and start a wing. Tiss ye, tiss your estranged faces, that miss the many splendoured thing, but, when so sad thou canst not sadder, cry, and upon thy so sore loss, shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder, pitched be twigs, heaven, and chairing cross. Ye, in the night, my soul, my daughter, cry, clinging heaven, by the hems, and lo, Christ walking on the water, not of Genesarth, but Thames. The Lady Poverty The Lady Poverty was fair, but she has lost her looks of late, with change of times and change of air. Ah, slattern, she neglects her hair, her gown, her shoes, she keeps no state, as, once when, her pure feet were bare, or almost worse, if worse can be, she scolds in parlours, dusts, and trims. Watches and counts, oh, is this she, whom Francis met, whose step was free, who, with obedience, caralled hymns, in Umbria walked with chastity. Where is her ladyhood, not here, not among modern kinds of men, but in the stony fields, where clear, through the thin trees the skies appear, in delicate spare soil and fin, and slender landscape and austere. Alice may know, end of poem. Courtesy, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Of Courtesy it is much less, than courage of heart or holiness, but in my walks it seems to me, that the grace of God is in Courtesy. On monks I did, in Storington Fall, they took me straight into their hall, I saw three pictures on a wall, and Courtesy was in them all. The first the annunciation, the second the visitation, the third the consolation, of God that was our lady's son. The first was of St. Gabriel, on wings aflame from heaven he fell, and as he went upon one knee he shone with heavenly Courtesy. Our lady out of Nazareth Road, it was her month of heavy load, yet was her face both great and kind, for Courtesy was in her mind. The third it was our little Lord, whom all the kings in arms adored. He was so small, you could not see, his large intent of Courtesy. Or Lord, that was our lady's son. Go bless you, people, one by one. My rhyme is written, my work is done. Halaire Baloch N. of Poem Montserrat, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Peace waits among the hills, I have drunk peace, here where the blue air fills, the gray cup of the hills, and fills with peace, between the earth and sky, I have seen the earth, like a dark cloud go by, and fade out of the sky, there was no more earth, here where the holy grail brought secret light, once from beyond the veil, I seeing no holy grail, see divine light, light fills the hills with God, wind with his breath, and here in his abode, light wind and air praise God, and this poor breath. Halaire Baloch N. of Poem, prayers, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. God who created me, nimble and light of limb, in three elements free, to run, to ride, to swim, not when the sense is dim, but now, from the heart of joy, I would remember him, take the thanks of a boy, Jesus, King and Lord, whose are my foes to fight, gird me with thy sword, swift and sharp and bright, thee would I serve if I might, and conquer if I can, from day dawn till night, take the strength of a man, spirit of love and truth, breathing in gosser clay, the light and flame of youth, the light of men in the fray, wisdom in strengths decay, from pain strife, wrong to be free, this best gift I pray, take my spirit to thee. Henry Charles Beaching N. of Poem, the shepherdess, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. She walks, the lady of my delight, a shepherdess of sheep, her flocks are thoughts, she keeps them white, she guards them from the steep, she feeds them on the fragrant height, and folds them in for sleep, she roams maternal hills and bright, dark valleys safe and deep, into that tender breast at night, the chasis stars may peep, she walks, the lady of my delight, a shepherdess of sheep, she holds her little thoughts in sight, though gay they run and leap, she is so circumstepped and bright, she has her soul to keep, she walks, the lady of my delight, a shepherdess of sheep, Alice Maynell N. of Poem, gibberish, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Many a flower have eyes seen blossom, many a bird from me will sing, never heard eye so sweet a singer, never saw eye so fair a thing, she is a bird, a bird that blossoms, she is a flower, a flower that sings, an eye a flower, when eye behold her, and when I hear her, eye have wings, Mary E. Coleridge N. of Poem, Martha, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Once upon a time, over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, in the hazel glen, hers were those clear gray eyes, you watch, and the story seems, told by their beautifulness, tranquil as dreams, she'd sit with her two slim hands, clasped round her bended knees, while we on her elbows lulled, and stared at ease, her voice and her narrow chin, her grave small lovely head, seemed half the meaning of the words she said, once upon a time, like a dream you dream in the night, fairies and gnomes stole out, in the leaf green light, and her beauty far away would fade as her voice ran on till hazel and summer sun, and all were gone, all foredone and forgot, and like clouds in the height of the sky, our heart stood still in the hush of an age gone by. Walter de La Mer End of Poem A friend, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. All that he came to give, he gave, and went again, I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, with all the graces in his train. As one of us he wrought, things of the common hour, whence was the charmed soul brought, that gave each ant such power, the natural beauty of a flower. Magnificence and grace, excellent courtesy, a brightness on the face, airs of high memory, whence came all these, two such as he. Like young Shakespearean kings, he won the adoring throng, and, as Apollo sings, he triumphed with a song, triumph and saying and passed along. With a light word he took, the hearts of men enthralled, and, with a golden look, welcomed them at his call, giving their love, their strength, their awe. No man less proud than he, nor cared for homage less, only he could not be, far off from happiness, nature was bound to his success. Weary that cares the jars, the lets of every day, but the heavens filled with stars, chanced heek upon the way, and where he stayed all joy would stay. Now, when sat night draws down, when the austere stars burn, roaming the vast life-town, my thoughts and memories yearn, towards him who never will return. Yet have I seen him live, and owned my friend a king, all that he came to give, he gave, and I, who sing, his praise bring all I have to bring. Lionel Johnson. N. of Poem. Twilight, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call, down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all. There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end. Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. I think of the friends who were dead, who were dear long ago in the past. Beautiful friends who were dead, though I know that death cannot last. Friends with beautiful eyes, that the dust has defiled. Beautiful souls who were gentle, when I was a child. John Masfield. N. of Poem. On the death of Arnold Toyenby, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Goodbye, no tears nor cries, are fitting here, and long lumbent were vain, only the last low words be softly said, and the last greeting given above the dead. For soul more pure and beautiful are eyes, never shall see again. Alas, what help is it? What consolation in this heavy chance, that to the blameless life so soon laid low? This was the end appointed long ago, this the allotted space, the measure fit, of endless ordinance. Thus were the ancient days, made like our own monotonous with grief, from unassued lips, even thus hath flown, perpetually the immemorial moan, of those that weeping went on desolate ways, nor found in tears relief. For faces yet rompale, tears rise at fortune, and true hearts take fire, in all who hear, with quickening pulses stroke, that cry that from the infinite people broke. When third among them Helen led the whale, at Hector's funeral pyre, and by the Latin beach, at rise of dawn, such piteous tears were shed, when Troy and Arcady in long array followed the princely body on its way, and Lord Adius spoke the last said speech, above young phallus dead. Even in this English climb the same sweet cry no circling seas can drown. In melancholy cadence rose to swell, some dirge of Lycidius or Astrophel, when lovely souls and pure before their time into the dusk went down. These earth, the bountenous nurse, hath long ago lapped in deep peace divine, lips that made musical their old world woe, themselves have gone to silence long ago, and left a weaker voice and weirier verse, O royal soul, for thine, beyond our life, how far soars his new life through radiant orb and zone, while we, in impotency of the night, walk doubly, and the path is hard and light. Fails and for sun and moon the single star, honor is left alone, the star that knows no set, but circles ever with a fixed desire, watching Orion's armor all of gold, watching and wearying not till pale and cold, dawn breaks and the first shafts of morning fret, the east with lines of fire, but on the broad low plain, when night is clear and windy, with hard frost, such as had once the morning in their eyes, watching and wearying gaze upon the skies, and cannot see that star for their great pain, because the sun is lost. Alas, how all our love is scant at best to fill so ample room, image and influence fall too fast away, and fading memory cries at dusk of day, deemst thou the dust wreaks, ought, at all thereof, the ghost within the tomb, for even our lives like this, the slumberous river washes soft and slow, the lapping water rises wearily, numbing the nerve and will to sleep, and we, before the goal and crown of mysteries, fall back and dare not know, only at times we know, in gyres convolved and luminous orbits world, the soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep, out of the deep fire-winged and into the deep, as two who loved each other here below, better than all the world, yet ever held apart, and never knew their own hearts deepest things, after long laps of periods, wandering far, beyond the pathways of the further star, into communicable space might dart with tremor of thunderous wings, across the void might call each unto each past worlds, that raced and ran, and flashed through galaxies and clasp and kiss, in some slant chasm and infinite abyss, far in the faint sidereal interval between the leer and swan, J.W. Mackale, End of Poem, Estrangement, Poems of Today, and Anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. So without overt breach we fall apart, tactily thunder neither you nor I, conscious of one intelligible why, and both from severance winning equal smart, so with resigned and acquisitioned heart, where your name on some chance lit may lie, I seem to see an alien shade pass by, a spirit wherein I have no lot or part, thus may a captive in some fortress grim, from casual speech betwixt his waters learn, that June on her triumphant progress goes, through arched and bannered woodlands, while for him she is a legend emptied of concern, an idol is the rumour of the rose, William Watson, End of Poem, Fatherhood, Poems of Today, and Anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, a kiss, a word of thanks, a way, they're gone and you forsaken learn, the blessedness of giving, they, so nature bids, forget, nor turn, to where you sit and watch and yearn, and you, so nature bids, would go, through fire and water for their sake, rise early, late, take rest, to sow, their wealth and lie all night awake, if but their little finger ache, the storied prince with wondrous hair, which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, reveling since he had no air, built him a pillar in the veil, absolums, lest his name should fail, it fails not, though the pillar lies in dust, because the outraged one, his father, with strong agonies, cried it until the day was done, oh Absalom, my son, my son, so nature bade, or might it be, God, who in Jewry once, they say, cried with a great cry, come to me, children, who still held on their way, though he spread out his hands all day. Henry Charles, speaking, in of poem, Daisy, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Where the thistle lifts a purple crown, six foot out of the turf, and the hair bell shakes on the windy hill, o the breath of the distant surf, the hills look over on the south, and southward dreams the sea, and with the sea breeze hand in hand came innocence and she, where mid the gorse the raspberry, red for the gatherer springs, to children did, we stray and talk, wise idle, childish things, she listened with big lip surprise, breast deep, midflower and spine, her skin was like a grape whose veins run snow instead of wine, she knew not those sweet words she spake, nor knew her own sweet way, but there's never a bird, so sweet a song, thronged in whose throat that day. Oh, there were flowers in Storington, on the turf and on the spray, but the sweetest flower on Susick Hills was the Daisy flower that day. Her beauty smoothed, earth furrowed face, she gave me tokens three, a look, a word, of her winsome mouth, and a wild raspberry, a berry, red, a gill-less look, a still word, strings of sand, and yet they made my wild, wild heart fly down to her little hand. Forstanding artless as the air, and candid as the skies, she took the berries with her hand, and the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end, their scent survives their clothes, but the rose's scent is bitterness to him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully, then went her sunshine way. The sea's eye had a mist on it, and the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, she went and left in me, the pang of all the partings gone, and partings yet to be. She left me marveling why my soul was sad that she was glad, at all the sadness in her sweet, the sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seem to see her, still, look up with soft replies, and take the berries with her hand, and the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing begins, and nothing ends, that is not paid with moan, for we are born in others' pain, and perish in our own. Francis Thompson End of Poem A Cradle Song Poems of Today An Anthology by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O men from the fields, come gently within, tread softly, softly, O men coming in. Marvoreen is going, from me and from you, where Mary will fold him with mantle of blue, from reek of the smoke and cold of the floor, and the peering of things across the half-door. O men from the fields, soft, softly come through, Mary puts round him her mantle of blue. Patrick Colum End of Poem On a dead child, poems of today, an anthology by Various Authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, with promise of strength, and manhood full and fair, though cold and stark and bare, the bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. Thy mother's treasure worked thou alas no longer. To visit her heart with wondrous joy, to be, thy father's pride, ah he, must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. To me, as I move thee now, in the last duty, doth thou with a turn or a gesture, a non, respond, startling my fancy fond, with a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. Thy hand clasp, as twas won't, my finger, and holds it, but the grasp is the clasp of death, heartbreaking and stiff, yet feels to my hand as if. Twas still thy will, thy pleasure, and trust that enfolds it. So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing. Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed, propping thy wise, sad head. Thy firm pale hands across thy chest disposing. So quiet doth the change content thee. Death wither half he taken thee. To a world, do I think, that writes the disaster of this, the vision of which I miss, who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee, and awaken thee. Ah, little at best can all our hopes avail us. To lift this sorrow or cheer us, when in the dark, unwilling alone we embark, and the things we have seen and have known, and have heard of fail us. Robert Bridges End of Poem I never shall love the snow again, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I never shall love the snow again, since Maurice died. With cornest drift it blocked the lane, and sheeded in a desolate plain, the countryside. The trees with silvery rhyme, bed-dite, their branches bare. By day no sun appeared, by night, the hidden moon shed thievish light, in the misty air. We fed the birds that flew around, in flocks to be fed. No shelter in, holly, or break, they found. The speckled thrush on the frozen ground, they frozen and dead. We skated on stream and pond, we cut the crunching snow. To Doric temple, or arctic hut, we laughed and sang at nightfall, shut by the fireside glow. Get grudged, we are keen delights, before Maurice should come. We said, indoor or out of door, we shall love life for a month or more, when he is home. They brought him home, twas two days late, for Christmas day, wrapped in white, in solemn state, a flower in his hand, all still and straight, our Morris lay. And two days error the year out gave, we laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, when we laid Maurice down in his grave, under the snow. Robert Bridges End of Poem To my godchild, poems of today, an anthology, by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Francis M. W. M. This laboring, vast, tellurian galleon, riding at anchor off the Orient sun, had broken its cable and stood out to space, down some floor arctic of the aerial ways. And now, back warping from the inclement main, its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, it swung into its azure roads again, when floated on the prosperous sun gale, you lit a white hail-con auspice, mid our frozen crew. To the sun, stranger, surely you belong, giver of golden days and golden song. Nor is it, by an all unhappy plan, you bear the name of me, his constant, Magian. Yet awe from any other that it came, less faded to my face you'd be as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, my heart turned troubled at the ominous thing, though well may such a title him endower, for whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. The Assisian who kept plighted faith to thee, to song, to sanctitude, and poverty, into a lone of whom most singers prove, a fatal faithfulness of during love. He the sweet sales of whom we scarcely can, how God he could love more, he so love men, the crown and crown of Laura and Italy, and flexors follow from these and not from me. Take you your name, and take your legacy, or, if a right success of you declare, when worms for ivies intertwine my hair, take but this posy, that now, followeth, my clay best with sullen servile breath, made then your happy freedmen by testating death. My song I do, but hold for you in trust, I ask you but blossom from my dust, when you have come past a week I begin, diviner poet and awe diviner man, the man at feud with the perduing child, in you before songs alter nobly reconciled, from the wise heavens I half shall smile to see, how little a world which owned you needed me, if while you keep the virgals of the night, for your wild tears made darkness all too bright, some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, as it played lover over your sweet sleeps, think in a golden crevice in the sky, which I have pierced but to be told you by, and when immortal mortal droops your head, and you the child of deathless song are dead, then as you search with unaccustomed glance, the ranks of paradise for my counterance, turn not your tread along the Uranian sod, among the bearded counselors of God, for if an Eden as on earth are we, I shall keep a younger company, pass where beneath their range gone felons, the story cohort shake their shielded sons, the dreadful mass of their enraged spears, pass where majestical the eternal peers, the stately choice of the great saintdom meet, a silver segregation globed complete, in sandaled shadow of the triune feet, pass by where wait young poet wayfarer, your cousin clusters, emulous to share, with you the rosal lightnings burning mid their hair, pass the crystalline sea, the lamp-pad seven, look for me in the nurseries of heaven, Francis Thompson, end of poem. When June is come, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When June is come, then all the day, I'll sit with my love in the scented hay, and watch the sun-shot palaces high, that the white clouds build in the breezy sky. She singeth, and I do make her a song, and read sweet poems the whole day long, unseen as we lie in our hay-built home, O life is the light when June is come. Robert Bridges, end of poem. In Misty Blue, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In Misty Blue the lark is heard, above the silent homes of men, the bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, the yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird, mid-sallow blossoms, blonde as curd, or silver oak-bows, caroling, with happy throat from tree to tree, sing into light this morn of spring, that sang my dear love home to me. Be starry, buds of cloistered white, around the dark waves of her hair. The young fresh glory you prepare is like my ever-fresh delight, when she comes shining on my sight, with meeting eyes with such a cheek, as colors fair, like flushing tips of shoots and music air, she speak, lies in the wonder of her lips. Ears of the morning breathe about, keen faint sense of the wildwood side, from thickets where primrose is hide, mid the brown leaves of winter's rout, chestnut and willow, beacon out, for our joy of her, from far and nigh, your English green on English hills, above her head, song quivering sky, and at her feet the daffodils. Because she breathed, the world was more, and breath a finer soul to use, and life held blovier hopes to choose, but oh, to-day my heart brims o'er, earth glows as from a kindled core, like shadows of diviner things, or hill and cloud and flower and tree, a splendor that is hers and springs, the day my love came home to me. THE DEAD STONE LIVED BENEATH MY FOOT Lawrence Binion N. of Poem The praise of dust, poems of to-day, and anthology by various authors, this Thebervox recording is in the public domain. What a vile dust! the preacher said. Me thought the whole world woke. The dead stone lived beneath my foot, and my whole body spoke. You that play tyrant to the dust, and stamp its wrinkled face, this patient star that flings you not, far into homeless space, come down out of your dusty shrine, the living dust to see, the flowers that, at your sermon's end, stand blazing silently, rich white and blood-red blossom stones, lichens like fire in crest, a gleam of blue, a glare of gold, the vision of the dust. Pass them all by till, as you come, where, at city's edge, under a tree, I know it well, under a lattice ledge. The sunshine falls on one brown head, you too, o cold of clay. Eater of stones may happily hear the trumpets of that day. Went God to all his paladins by his own splendor swore, to make a fairer face than heaven of dust and nothing more. G. K. Chesterton N. of Palm In Fountain Court, Palms of Today, an anthology by various authors, this the bravox recording is in the public domain. The fountain murmuring of sleep, a drowsy tune, the flickering green of leaves that keep the light of June, peace through a slumbering afternoon, the peace of June, a waiting ghost in the blue sky, the white curved moon, June hushed and breathless waits an eye, wait too with June, come through the lingering afternoon, soon, love, come soon. Author Simons N. of Palm Awake My Heart to Be Loved Palms of Today, an anthology by various authors, this the bravox recording is in the public domain. Awake My Heart to Be Loved Awake Awake The darkness slivers away, the mourn doth break. It leaps in the sky, unrisen lusters slake. The oar taken moon, awake, o heart, awake. She too that loveth awake and hopes for thee. Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee. Already they watch the path thy feet shall take. Awake, o heart, to be loved, awake, awake. And if thou tarry from her, if this could be, she cometh herself, o heart, to be loved to thee. For thee would unashamed herself forsake. Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake. Awake, the land is scattered with light and sea. Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree. And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake. Awake, o heart, to be loved, awake, awake. Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee. She looketh and saith, O son, now bring him to me. Come more adored, o adored, for his coming's sake. And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake. Robert Bridges, End of Poem Ada wishes for the close of heaven. Poems of the day, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Had I the heaven's embroidered clothes, in rot with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark clothes, of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the clothes under your feet. But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams. W. B. Yates End of Poem Beauty, Poems of the Day, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills, coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain. I have seen the Lady April bringing the daffodils, bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain. I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, and seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships. But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me are her voice and her hair and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips. John Macefield End of Poem My Wife, Poems of the Day, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, with eyes of gold and bramble dew, steel true and blade straight, the great artificer made my mate. Honor, anger, valor, fire, a love that life could never tire. Death quench, or evil stir, the mighty master gave to her. Teacher, tender, comrade wife, a fellow fairer, true through life, heart whole and soul free, the August Father gave to me. Robert Louis Stevenson End of Poem From Love in the Valley, Poems of the Day, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, swift as the swallow along the river's light, circling the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, wayward as the swallow overhead as set of sun, she whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, hard but o'er the glory of the winning were she won. Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows, flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is a thirst and drinking up her wonder. Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, tis but her rapid measure, even as in a dance, and her smile can heal no less. Like the swinging May cloud that pelt the flowers with hailstones, off a sunny border she was made to bruise and bless. Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, arm in arm all against the rain west. Boldly she sings to the merry tune she marches. Braver is her shape and sweeter unpossessed. Sweeter for she is what my heart first waking. Whispered the world was, morning light is she. Love that so desires would feign keep her changeless. Feign would fling the net, and feign have her free. Happy, happy time when the white star hovers. Low over dim fields, fresh with bloomy dew. Near the face of dawn that draws all thwart the darkness, threading it with color like you berries, the you. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave east. Deepens, glowing and with crimson a long cloud swells. Made and still the morn is, and strange she is and secret. Strange her eyes, her cheeks are cold as cold seashells. Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red bros. Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window, she sleeps the starry Jasmine. Breeze a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetness? Not while she sleeps, while she sleeps the Jasmine breeze. Luring her to love, she sleeps the starry Jasmine. Bears me to her pillow under white rose-brreaths. George Meredith. Inn of poem. To the beloved poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Oh, not more subtly silent strays, amongst the winds beneath the voices. Mingling alike with pence of laze, and with the music that rejoices. Then thou art present in my days. My silence, life returns to thee. In all the pauses of her breath, hush back to rest the melody that out of thee awaketh, and thou wake ever wake for me. Thou art like silence all unvext. The wild words part my soul from thee. Thou art like silence unperplexed. A secret and a mystery between one footfall and the next. Most dear pause in a mellow lay. Thou art inwoven with every air. With thee the wildest tempest play, and snatches of the everywhere. Make little heavens throughout a day. Darkness and solitude shine for me, for life's fair outward part are rife. The sober noises let them be. It is the very soul of life. Listen for thee, listens for thee. O pause between the sobs of cares. O thought within, all thought that is. Trans between laughter's unawares. Thou art the shape of melodies, and though the ecstasy of prayers. Alice Maynell N of poem When you are old, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look. Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face, and bending down beside the glowing bars. Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled, and placed upon the mountains overhead, and hid his face among a crowd of stars. W. B. Yates N of poem I will not let thee go. Poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I will not let thee go. Ends all our month-long love in this? Can it be summed up so? Quit in a single kiss. I will not let thee go. I will not let thee go. If thy word's breath could scare thy deeds, as the soft south can blow, and toss the feathered seeds, then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go, had not the great sun seen. I might, or were he reckoned slow, to bring the false to light. Then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go. The stars that crowd the summer skies. Have watched us so below, with all their million eyes. I dare not let thee go. I will not let thee go. Have we not, chids, a changeful moon, now rising late, and now, because she set too soon, and shall I let thee go. I will not let thee go. Have not the young flowers being content, plucked ear their buds could blow, to seal our sacrament. I cannot let thee go. I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many hands. Though say is farewell, and lo, I have thee by the hands. And I will not let thee go. Robert Bridges End of poem Parted, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Farewell to one, now silence quite, sent out of hearing, out of sight, my friend of friends, whom I shall miss. He is not banished, though, for this, nor he nor sadness, nor delight. Though I shall talk with him no more, a low voice sounds upon the shore. He must not watch my resting place, but who shall drive a mournful face from the sad winds about my door. I shall not hear his voice complain, but who shall stop the patient rain. His tears must not disturb my heart, but who shall change the years and part, the world from every thought of pain. Although my life is left so dim, the morning crowns the mountain rim. Joy is not gone from summer skies, nor innocence from children's eyes, and all these things are part of him. He is not banished for the showers, yet wake this green warm earth of ours. How can the summer, but be sweet? I shall not have him at my feet, and yet my feet are on the flowers. Alice Maynell End of Poem LG on a lady, whom grief for the death of her betroth killed. Poems of the day and anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Assemble all ye maidens at the door, and all ye loves assemble far and wide. Proclaim the bridle that proclaimed before has been deferred to this late even tide. For on this night the bride, the days of her betrothal over, leaves the parental hearth for evermore. Tonight the bride goes forth to meet her lover. Reach down the wedding vesture that has lain, yet all unvisited, the silken gown. Bring out the bracelets and the golden chain, her dear friends provided, sear and brown. Bring out the festile crown, and set it on her forehead lightly. Though it be withered, twine, no wreath again, this only is the crown she can wear brightly. Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold, and wrap her warmly, for the night is long. In Pia's hands the flaming torches hold, while her attendance chosen from among. Her faithful virgin throng may lay her in, her cedar litter. Decking her coveret with sprigs of gold, roses and lilies white that best be fit her. Sound flute and taber that the bridle be, not with a music, nor with these alone, but let the vial lead the melody, with lesser intervals and plaint of moan, of sinking semitone, and all inquire the virgin voices, rest not from singing in skilled harmony. The song that ay the bridegroom's ear rejoices. Let the priest go before, arrayed in white, and let the dark stalled ministrels follow slow. Next they that bear her honor on this night, and then the maidens in a double row, each singing soft and low, and each on high at torch upstaying, unto her lover lead her forth with light, with music, and with singing, and with praying. Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came, and found her trusty window open wide, and knew the signal of the timorous flame, that long the restless curtain would not hide, her form that stood beside, as scarce she dared to be delighted, listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame, to faithful lovers that their hearts had plighted. But now for many days the dewy grass has shown no markings of his feet at moorn, and watching she has seen no shadow pass, the moonlight walk, and heard no music borne, upon her ear forlorn. In vain she has looked out to greet him, he has not come, he will not come alas, so let us bear her out where she must meet him. Now to the river bank the priests are come, the bark is ready to receive its freight. Let some prepare her place therein, and some embark the litter with its slender weight. The rest stand by in state, and sing her a safe passage over, while she is oared across to her new home, into the arms of her expectant lover, and thou, O lover, that art on the watch, where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, the pale indifferent ghosts wander and snatch the sweeter moments of their broken dreams, thou, when the torchlight gleams, when thou shalt see the slow procession, and when thine ears the fitful music catch, rejoice for thou art near to thy possession. Robert Bridges End of Poem An Epitaph Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Here lies a most beautiful lady. Light of step and heart was she. I think she was the most beautiful lady that ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes, beauty passes, however rare, rare it be, and when I crumble, who will remember this lady of the West Country? Walter de La Mer End of Poem A Dream of Death Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I dreamed that one had died in a strange place, near no accustomed hand, and they had nailed the boards above her face, the peasants of that land, and wondering planted by her solitude, a cypress and a you. I came and wrote upon a cross of wood, man had no more to do. She was more beautiful than thy first love, this lady by the trees, and gazed upon the mournful stars above, and heard the mournful breeze. W. B. Yates End of Poem A Dream of a Bless Spirit Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. All the heavy days are over, leave the body's colored pride. Underneath the grass and clover, with the feet laid side by side. One with her are mirth and duty, bear the gold imported grass, for she needs not her, said beauty, to the scented oak and press. Hers the kiss of Molly Mary, the long hair is on her face. Still she goes with footsteps wary, full of earth's old timid grace. With white feet of angels' seven, her white feet go glimmering, and above the deep of heaven, flame on flame, and wing on wing. W. B. Yates End of Poem Messages Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. What shall I, your true love tell, earth forsaken made? What shall I, your true love tell, when life's spectres laid? Tell him that, our side the grave, made may not conceive. Life should be so sad to have, that so sad to leave. What shall I, your true love tell, when I come to him? What shall I, your true love tell, eyes growing dim? Tell him this, when you shall part, from a maiden-pind, that I see him with my heart. Now my eyes are blind. What shall I, your true love tell, speaking while is scant? What shall I, your true love tell, death's white, postolent? Tell him love was speech at strife, for last uttereth saith, I who loved with all my life, love with all my death. Francis Thompson End of Poem The Folly of Being Comforted Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. One that is ever kind said yesterday, your well-beloved's hair has threads of gray, and little shadows come about her eyes, time can but make it easier to be wise. Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end, and so be patient, be wise, and patient, friend. But heart there is no comfort, not a grain, time can but make her beauty over again. Because of that great nobleness of hers, the fire that stirs about her, when she stirs, burns but more clearly, oh, she had not these ways, when all the wild summer was in her gaze. Oh heart, oh heart, if she'd but turn her head, you'd know the folly of being comforted. W. B. Yates End of Poem At night, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Home, home, from the horizon far and clear, hither the soft wings sweep, flocks of the memories of the day drawn here, the dove-coat doors of sleep, oh, which are they that come through sweetest light, of all these homing birds, which with the straightest and the swiftest flight, your words to me, your words. Alice Maynell End of Poem End of Poems of Today An Anthology by Various Authors