 It ought to be lovely to be old, To be full of the peace that comes of experience, And wrinkled ripe fulfilment. The wrinkled smile of completeness That follows a life lived undaunted and unsoured, With accepted lies they would ripen like apples, And be scented like pipins in their old age. Soothing old people should be, Like apples when one is tired of love, Fragrant like yellowing leaves, And dim with a soft stillness and satisfaction of autumn. And a girl should say, It must be wonderful to live and grow old, Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! And a young man should think, By Jove! My father has faced all weathers, But it's been a life. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, By Thomas Moore, Red for LibriVox.org, By Carol Box, in Surrey, England. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow and fleet in my arms, If fairy-gifts fading away, Thou would still be adored, As this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thy known, And thy cheeks unprofamed by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear, Know the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But has truly loves on to the clothes, As the sunflower turns on her God when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Cobwebs By Christina Rosetti Red for LibriVox.org By Winston Tharp It is a land with neither night nor day nor heat nor cold nor any wind nor rain nor hills nor valleys but one even plain stretches through long unbroken miles away, While through the sluggish air a twilight grey broodeth. No moons or seasons wax and wane, No ebb and flow are there along the main, No bud-time, no leaf-falling there for a, No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand, No bead of wings to stir the stagnant space, No pulse of life through all the loveless land and loveless sea, No trace of days before, no guarded home, No toil-one resting place, No future hope, no fear for evermore. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Echo By Christina Rosetti Red for LibriVox.org By Winston Tharp Come to me in the silence of the night, Come in the speaking silence of a dream, Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright as sunlight on a stream, Come back in tears, home memory, hope, Love of finished years. O dream-house sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose awakening should have been in paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet, Where thirsting longing eyes watch the slow door, That opening, letting in, lets out no more. Yet come to me in dreams, That I may live my very life again, Though cold in death, Come back to me in dreams, That I may give pulse for pulse, Breath for breath, Speak low, lean low, As long ago my love, How long ago. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Florida Beach By Constance Fenimore-Wolson Red for LibriVox.org By Laura Armintraut Our driftwood fire burns drowsily The fog hangs low afar. A thousand seabirds, fearlessly, Hover above the bar. Our boat is drawn far up the strand, Beyond the tides long, Reach. Like a fringe to the dark green winterland, Shines the silvery Florida Beach. Behind the broad pine barrens lie Without a path or trail, Before the ocean meets the sky Without a rock or sail. We call across to Africa, As a poet called to Spain. A murmur of, Antony, Antony, The waves bring back in refrain. Far to the south the beach shines On, dotted with giant shells. Coral sprays from the white reef one Radiate spiny cells. Glass-like creatures that ride the waves With azure sail and oar, And wide mouth things From the deep sea caves That melt away on the shore. While ducks gaze as we pass along, They have not learned to fear. The mockingbird keeps on his song In the low palmetto near. The sluggish stream from the Everglade Shows the alligator's track, And the sea is broken in light and shade With the heave of the dolphin's back. The Spanish lighthouse stands in haze The keeper trims his light. No sail he sees through the long, long days No sail through the still, still night. But ships that pass far out at sea Along the warm gulf stream From Cuba and tropic Caribbean Keep watch for his distant gleam. Alone, alone, we wander on In the southern winter day. Through the dreamy veil the fog has spun The world seems far away. The tide comes in, the birds fly low As if to catch our speech. Ah, destiny, why must we ever go Away from the Florida beach? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Fool by Yvonne Targaniev Read for LibriVox.org by Paul Rizek Once upon a time, a fool lived in the world. For a long time he lived in clover, but gradually rumors began to reach him to the effect that he bore the reputation everywhere of a brainless ninny. The fool was disconcerted and began to fret over the question of how he was to put an end to these unpleasant rumors. A sudden idea at last illumined his dark little brain, and without the slightest delay he put it into execution. An acquaintance met him on the street and began to praise a well-known artist. Good gracious exclaimed the fool, that artist was relegated to the archives long ago. Don't you know that? I didn't not expect that of you. You are behind the times. The acquaintance was frightened and immediately agreed with the fool. What a fine book I have read today, said another acquaintance to him. Good gracious cried the fool. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? That book is good for nothing. Everybody dropped it and discussed long ago. Don't you know that? You are behind the times. And the acquaintance also was frightened and agreed with the fool. What a splendid man my friend N.N. is, said a third acquaintance to the fool. There's a truly noble being for you. Good gracious exclaimed the fool. It is well known that N.N. is a scoundrel. He has robbed all his relatives. Who is there that does not know it? You are behind the times. The third acquaintance also took fright and agreed with the fool and renounced his friend. And whosoever or whatsoever was praised in the fool's presence, he had the same retort for all. He even sometimes added reproachfully. And do you still believe in the authorities? A malicious person, a billious man, his acquaintance began to say about this fool. What a head! And what a tongue! added others. Oh yes, he is talented. It ended in the publisher of the newspaper proposing to the fool that he should take charge of his critical department. And the fool began to criticize everything and everybody without making the slightest change in his methods or in his exclamations. Now he who formerly shrieked against authorities is an authority himself, and the young men worship in fear of him. But what are they that do, poor fellows? Although it is not proper, generally speaking, to worship. Yet in this case, if one does not do it, he will find himself classed among the men who are behind the times. There is a career for fools among cowards. End of the Fool. This recording is in the public domain. Roddy McCorley by Ethna Carberry. Read for LibriVox.org by Steve Toner. Ho, see the fleet-foot hosts of men who speed with faces won, from farmstead and from fishers caught upon the banks of ban. They come with vengeance in their eyes, too late, too late, are they? For Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best, the fearless brave who fighting fall upon your hapless breast. But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray, than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of tomb today. Up the narrow street he stepped, smiling and proud and young, about the hemp rope on his neck the golden ringlets clung. There's never a tear in the blue-blue eyes, both glad and bright, are they? As Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. Ah, when he last stepped up that street his shining pike in hand, behind him marched in grim array a stalwart earnest band. For Antrim town, for Antrim town he led them to the fray, and Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. The gray coat and its sash of green were brave and stainless then, a banner flashed beneath the sun over the marching men. The coat hath many a rent this noon the sash is torn away, and Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. Oh, how his pike flashed to the sun, then found a foeman's heart. Through furious fight and heavy odds he bore a true man's part, and many a red coat bit the dust before his keen pike play, but Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. Because he loved the motherland, because he loved the green, he goes to meet the martyr's fate with proud and joyous mean. True to the last, true to the last, he treads the upward way. Young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of tomb today. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Ships That Won't Go Down by Henry Lawson Read for LibriVox.org by Son of the Exiles. We hear a great commotion about the ship that comes to grief, that founders in mid-ocean, or is driven on a reef. Because it's cheap and brittle, a score of sinners drown, but we hear but mighty little of the ships that won't go down. His honour to the builders, the builders of the past, his honour to the builders that builded ships to last, his honour to the captain, and honour to the crew, his double-column headlines to the ships that battle through. They make a great sensation about famous men that fail, that sink a world of chances in the city morgue or jail, who drink or blow their brains out because of fortunes frown, but we hear far too little of the men who won't go down. The world is full of trouble, and the world is full of wrong, but the heart of man is noble, and the heart of man is strong. They say the sea sings dirges, but I would say to you, that the wild wave songs appear for the men that battle through. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Of the winter's day. The street was wet with a recent snow, and the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, alone, uncared for, amid the throng of human beings who passed her by, nor heeded the glance of her anxious eyes. Down the street with laughter and shout, glad in the freedom of school let out, came the boys like a flock of sheep, hailing the snow, piled white and deep. Past the woman, so old and gray, hastened the children on their way, nor offered a helping hand to her, so meek, so timid, afraid to stir lest the carriage-wheels or the horse's feet should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop, the gayest laddie of all the group. He paused beside her and whispered, low, I'll help you cross if you wish to go. Her aged hand, on his strong, young arm, she placed, and so, without hurt or harm, he guided the trembling feet along, proud that his own were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, his young heart happy and well content. Well content, she's somebody's mother, boys, you know, for all she's aged and poor and slow, and I hope some fellow will lend a hand to help my mother, you understand, if ever she's poor and old and gray, when her own dear boy is far away. And somebody's mother bowed low her head in her home that night, and the prayer, she said, was, God, be kind to the noble boy who is somebody's son, and pride and joy. End of poem. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Tale of Tooth by Henry E. Horne Read for LibriVox.org by Son of the Exiles Big Billy Bull of Bungendore, he used to pull our teeth before, the railway come and strike me dumb and dead, you read it fairly hum, when Billy's pincers grabbed your gum, while cross your chest, he's weighty pressed, and pushed your pendix out of plum. But once a bloke named Johnny Jupp came down and broke our blacksmith up, it turned him gray, he tried all day, to lift and shift one tooth away, until at last in his dismay, what does he do, but ties it to the tailboards of my new spring drae. And then we got into the cart, and at a trot, we made a start. The bloke behind, he didn't mind, because it was intended kind, though till he sought a brewery's eye, he yelled, of course, to stop the horse, and cursed us black and blue and blind. So by the tooth, along the dust, we dragged that youth till something bust, and then we swore and chucked it for their hung and swung our tailboard, or the most of it to Johnny's jaw, which snapped at us with vicious cuss, and said, you crimson cows, no more! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is frown, or so you say. Well, don't provoke it. No, no, I'm serious just now. Great weight to every word attaches. What's that you ask me? Anyhow, to pass the matches. You shall have chocolates to eat of every possible description. Those rosy lips are much too sweet to solve with Yankee or Egyptian. Your smiles with trinkets, silent ties, or silly frillies made of chiffon, till once again you say I'm nice and not a griffon. Among those violet-scented curls the smell of stale tobacco lingers, and oh, to think my best of girls should go about with yellow fingers. Are you aware that stain will spread right up your arm and past your shoulder and ruin What was that you said? You'll use a holder. No, Angelina, I insist. Come, darling. What! You're surely joking. You are not anxious to be kissed. You'd sooner give up me than smoking. So be it. Take your cigarette and smoke it, love and homage scawning. But suffer me with much regret to say good morning. End of a Vane Appeal from Edwin by Jesse Pope This recording is in the public domain. When I Am Dead, My Dearest by Christina Rosetti Red for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp When I Am Dead, My Dearest Sing no sad songs for me Plant down of roses at my head in a shady cypress tree Be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet And if thou wilt remember and if thou wilt forget I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain I shall not hear the nightingales sing on as if in pain And dreaming through the twilight that doth not rise nor set Happily I may remember and happily may forget End of Poim This recording is in the public domain. Will you write it down for me by Henry Lawson Red for LibriVox.org by Son of the Exiles In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone wrong When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song Where the poet's heart is speaking to their hearts in every line Till the hardest curse and blubber at the thoughts of old Langzine Then a boozer lurches forward with an oath for all disguise Prayers and curses in his soul and tears and liquor in his eyes Grasps the singer or reciter with a death-grip by the hand That's the truth, Blake, sling it at him Oh God, blimey, that was grand Don't mind me, I've got him, you know What's your name, bloke? Don't you see? Here's the bloke what wrote the poetry Will you write it down for me And the back-blocks bard goes through it Ever seeking, as he goes, for the line of least resistance To the hearts of many knows And he tracks their hearts in mateship And he tracks them out alone Seeking for the power to sway them Till he finds it in his own Feels what they feel, loves what they love Learns to hate what they condemn Takes his pen in tears and triumph And he writes it down for them End of poem This recording is in the public domain