 After the Order of Melchizedek by Robert W. Norwood, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. I am a priest upon whose head God long ago poured holy oil. He gave me a word and said, With this thou shalt mankind assoil. Since I went forth God to obey, life has revealed me many things. I find it very hard to say what is most dear. The task that brings bread to the eater, or the rest that follows toil. The love of friends, of books, of song. Each is most blessed, and always with contentment blends. A stone, a faggot, or a flower, a bird in rapture of its flight. December snow or April's shower. The velvet fastness of the night. When Mother Moon has left the stars and with the winds gone gossiping, Or leans upon the gate that bars dawn from untimely entering. These hold for me unending charm. Fill me with wonderment and awe that men should ever think of harm fencing their lives about with law. The world is such a lovely place, a jeweled pendant on love's chain. I marvel that a human face should pale with anger or with pain. I marvel at the cry for bread that thunders round the waking world, The tumult of the legions tread, the shakes the earth as souls are hurled, In battle to destroy the souls God grew in his great garden, When he won past all his other goals, triumphant at the birth of men. Who can behold the dance of dawn, juggling with stars like tinseled balls Vestured in mantle of a wan white glory, Whose dim splendor falls upon the mountains, And not feel himself transcendent? Who can hear clanger a wild birds and the peel of mountain bells Across the clear blue sky co-mingling with the shout of children on their way to school, And fail at once to be about God's business? As within a pool you are reflected, Nature shows the miracle of what you are, The highest that creation knows, Lord of the earth and every star. I am a priest upon whose head God long ago poured holy oil. He gave me a word and said, With this thou shalt mankind a soil. I come from out the holy place with benediction for the earth, To wipe the tears from every face and tell the fallen one his work. My business is to be a priest whose holy task is to forgive, To bid the beggar to the feast, To touch the dead and make them live. I know not any fear of thrones nor claim of scribe and Pharisee. My word is set to many tones of loot and harp and sultry. I have no temple and no creed. I celebrate no mystic rite. The human heart is all I need wherein I worship day and night. The human heart is all I need for I have found God ever there. Love is the one sufficient creed and comradeship the purest prayer. I bow not down to any book. No written page holds me in awe, For when on one friend's face I look, I read the prophets and the law. I need no fountain filled with blood To cleanse my soul from mortal sin. For love is an unbounded flood, Freely I go to wash therein. Love laughs at boundaries of wrath, And is as infinite as God. Breaks down each wall, finds out each path Where willful strain feet have trod. Love is the word God gave and said, With it thou shalt mankind a soil. And forthwith poured upon my head Anointing of his holy oil. In the poem. This recording is in the public domain. After Rain, by Archibald Lampman, Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schempf. For three whole days across the sky In sullen packs that loomed and broke With flying fringes dim as smoke The columns of the rain went by. At every hour the wind awoke, The darkness passed upon the plain, The great drops rattled at the pain. Now pipe the wind, Or far aloof fell to a sow, remote and dull, And all night long with Russian lull The rain kept drumming on the rough. I heard till ear and sense were full The clash or silence of the leaves, The gurgle in the creaking eaves. But when the fourth day came, At noon the darkness and the rain were by, The sunward roofs were steaming dry, And all the world was flecked and strewn With shadows from a fleecy sky. The haymakers were forth and gone, And every rillet laughed and shone. Then too on me that loved so well the world, The sparing in her blight uplifted with her least delight. On me, as on the earth, There fell new happiness of mirth and might. I strode the valleys pied and still, I climbed upon the breezy hill. I watched the gray hawk wheel and drop, Soul shadow on the shining world. I saw the mountains clothe and curled With forest ruffling to the top. I saw the river's length unfurled, Pale silver down the fruited plain, Grown great and stately with the rain. Through miles of shadow and soft heat, Where field and fallow, fence and tree, Were all one world of greenery. I heard the robin ringing sweet, The sparrow piping silverly. The thrushes at the forest's hem, And as I went, I sang with them. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. An Autumn Rain Scene by Thomas Hardy Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson Their trudge is one to a merry-making With sturdy swing, on whom the rain comes down. The fact's the saving of medicine is Another bent, on whom the rain comes down. One slowly drives his herd To the stool, ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down. This wears his misses of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down. One watches the signals of wreck or war From the hills afar, On whom the rain comes down. No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves on, On whom the rain comes down. As another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him at all, On whom the rain comes down. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Brother Beast by Cale Young-Rice Read for LibriVox.org by Neema Brother Beast Winter is here and there are no leaves On the naked trees. Safe stars twinkling as the wind blows, Soft to the branches the little screech Howl silently comes, silently goes, With weird tremolos. I would go out and gather the stars, The wind shakes down. Were they not scattered so far in the west? I would go ask the little screech howl If he finds ease there in his nest After his quest. I would go learn if the small gray mouse Who sets up house in the frozen meadow Dreams of the stars. Or what he thinks there in the dark When flake on flake of white snow Bars him in with its spars. I would go out and learn these things That I may know what dream or desire Troubles my brothers in Nester Hall. For even as I, the owl on the mouse Or blinded mole with unborn soul May have some goal. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Character by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Bill Jones. I marvel how nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face. There's thought and no thought, And there's paleness and bloom and bustle And sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness and strength, both redundant and vain. Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper That's soft to disease, would be rational peace Of philosophers' ease. There's indifference alike When he fails or succeeds And attention full ten times As much as there needs. And for there's no envy, there's so much joy And mildness and spirit, both forward And coy. There's freedom and sometimes a defiant stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there. There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet knows heaven knows what to be worthy the name. This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the man would at once run away with your heart. And I, for five centuries, right gladly would be such an odd, such a kind, happy creature as he. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson, read for LibriVox.org by Fanu Jahangiri. Half a leak, half a leak, half a leak onward, All in the valley of death rode a six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade, charge for the guns, he said, into the valley of death rode a six hundred. Forward the Light Brigade was there a man dismayed, not though the soldiers knew who someone had blundered. There was not to make reply, there was not reason why, there's was but to do and die into the valley of death rode a six hundred. Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, war-lead and thundered. Stone dead with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell rode a six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabering the gunners there, charging an army wild, all the world wandered, plunging in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke, Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabers' stroke, shattered and thundered. Then they rode back but not, not that six hundred. Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them, war-lead and thundered, stormed dead with shot and shell, wild horse and hare of hell. They that fought so well came through the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell. All that was left of them, left of the six hundred. When can their glory failed? Oh, the wild charge they made, all the world wandered. Honor the charge they made, honor the light-brigade, noble six hundred. This recording is in the public domain. Dedication from Faust, a tragedy, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated by Charles Timothy Brooks, read for LibriVox.org, by Sonja. Dedication Once more you wave adremily before me, forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes. To hold you fast does still my heart implore me, still bid me clutch the charm that leers and flies. He crowd around, come then, hold empire over me, as from the mist and haze of thought you rise. The magic atmosphere, your train and breathing, through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing. You bring with you the forms of ours, Elysian, and shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze. First love and friendship steal upon my vision, like an old tale of legendary days. Sorrow renewed in mournful repetition, runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways, and sighing names the good, by fortune cheated, of blissful hours, who have before me fleeted. These later songs of mine, alas, will never sound in their ears to whom the first were sung. Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever, mute the first echo that so grateful rung. To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favour, like chilling sadness on my heart is flung, and all that kindled at those earlier numbers, roams the wide earth, or in its bosom slumbers. And now I feel a long unwonted yearning, for that calm, pensive spirit realm, to-day. Like an eolian lyre, debris's returning, floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay. Strange awe comes over me, tear on tear falls burning, the rigid heart to milder mood gives way, what I possess I see afar of lying, and what I lost is real and undying. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Deliverance at the moment of the Russian Revolution. Give up your dead, the cry came to prison and mine and quarry. Give up your living dead to life again. In all Siberia, lying under a night, numbly starry, awoke out of her sleep, awoke as at the spring thaw, and quivered, and was delivered of a hundred thousand men. Out of her wounds of torture, grief, and goaded degradation, out of her fields of exile and despair, they came, those who had dreamed the dreams of freedom for a nation, those who adhered to speak, timid, or brave, or blood-wild, of a new birth, a new earth, a Russia risen fair. The young came, old with the mar and misery of waiting, the old came withered and bent and dumb, broken of mine, broken of heart, broken of all but hating, back to the love of the sun, to hope so long undone, or hope of hope in the better days of healing years to come. The pity of it, the glory, oh the partings and the meetings, Russia again is reached across their woes. Kisses are given with the pangs of long forgotten heart beatings, wherein words fail to tell the horror's tale, or tell it over and over, without peace to its close. Never was such a birth of the dead back to the living, oh freedom, midwife of the world's desire, be with all lands that need you in their hours of birth-giving, and lend deliverance as great against mischance to every noble issue pity and progress seek desire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The door stands wide open by Hugh Black, 1868 to 1953, read for LibriVox.org, a firemist and a planet, a crystal and a cell, a jellyfish and a psorian, and caves where the cavemen dwell, then a sense of law and beauty and a face turned from the clod. Some call it evolution, and others call it God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Endless Lament by John Gould Fletcher, read for LibriVox.org by Richard Scott. Spring rain falls through the cherry blossom in long blue shafts, on grasses strewn with delicate stars. The summer rain sifts through the drooping willow, shatters the courtyard, leaving gray pools. The autumn rain drives through the maples, scarlet threads of sorrow towards the snowy earth. Would that the rains of all the winters might wash away my grief? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Epilogue to A Judgement in Heaven by Francis Thompson, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuck. Virtue may unlock hell, or even a sin turn in the wards of heaven, as ethics of the textbook go. So little men in their own deeds know, or through the intricate melee, guess whither would draw the battle's way. So little, if they know the deed, discern what therefrom shall succeed. To wisest moralists, tis but given, to work rough border law of heaven. Within this narrow life of ours, these marches twixt delimitless powers. Is it, if heaven the future showed? Is it the all-severest mode to see ourselves with the eyes of God? God rather grant at his assize, he see us not with our own eyes. Heaven which man's generations draws, nor deviates into replicas, must of as deep diversity in judgment as creation be. There is no expeditious road to pack and label men for God and save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance with strange surprise have blundered into paradise. In vasty dusk of life abroad they fondly thought to err from God, nor knew the circle that they trod, and wondering all the night about, found them at morn where they set out. Death dawned, heaven lay in prospect wide, lo, they were standing by his side. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Grace of the Way by Francis Thompson. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. The windy trammel of her dress, her blown locks, took my soul in mesh. God's breath they spake with visibleness that stirred the raiment of her flesh, and sensible as her blown locks were, beyond the precincts of her form I felt the woman flow from her, a calm of in tempestuous storm. I failed against the affluent tide, out of this abject earth of me I was translated and enscied into the heavenly region she. Now of that vision I bereave in this knowledge-keep that may not dim, short arm needs man to reach to heaven, so ready is heaven to stoop to him, which sets to measure of man's feet no alien tree for trusting place, and who can read may read the sweet direction in his lady's face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hale Coffee by Jacques Dali. Read for LibriVox.org by April 6,090, California, United States of America. Hale Coffee. Coffee affords a good restoring draught, which clears the fumes of wine too freely quaffed. By her you gain, when you the table quit, a calm more courteous and a brighter wit. And soon recovered by her powerful aid you are not of a second feast afraid. She by the God of verses praised and loved, the poet's genius is by her improved, your frigid rimmers, if at times inspired, write their best lines by coffee's fragrance fired. She can enliven philosophic plan, and make an analyst a pleasant man. Statesmen, through her, well-feasted and content, form happy schemes of better government, knowledge sometimes too journalist she brings, of court intrigues and deep designs of kings, peace, truces, wars, she to his dreams can show, and lets him for three pence the world overthrow. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Half-Bread by Kale Young Rice. Read for LibriVox.org by Nima. The Half-Bread. Let me go back again, for want of it comes over me, back to the wilds of Pima, and waste of Maricopa. There with desert under me, and desert night to cover me, night with a cactus stars to prick and spur me on. Let me by my tribe stray, a far-ranging rover be, with no pale face lodges between me and the dawn. Let me go back again, for yaki blood awakes in me. Let me, free of tethering, of toil and creed and cavill, out with a coyote go, for now his crying aches in me, out across the mesa that knows but hunger law, out with the winds to walk, till every bondage breaks in me, till the red blood in me, the white begins to thaw. Let me go back again, for souls of little use to me, soul and smoky hoping for hunting grounds immortal. From their blind string and strife they never grant a truce to me, never send a pause hour to string the beads of peace, never let the trail end, with time and tipi loose to me, never let tomorrow unborn and troubling cease. Let me go back then, for cities can but sicken me, soiling and eclipsing sun, moon and all the seasons. Let me go where silences and savage, loneless quicken me, even as the void waste no foot has ever trod. Let me go where primal thirst, few my heart enthicken me, against the throes of thinking, against the goads of God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson, read fourly provoked at Orc by Ian King. Hope is the Thing with Feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all. And sweetest in the gale is heard, and sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, and on the strangest sea, yet never in extremity it asked a crumb of me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Horses by Wither Biner, read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. Words are hoops, through which to leap upon meanings, which are horses' backs, bear, moving. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Praise of Little People by Carlo Inocenzo Porgoni, read for LibriVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America. In Praise of Small People, Little People, hear my song. In your praise I'm very strong. Great people, go along. In the first place, you're best made. That's the truth. Can't be gained said. And if it should be, who's afraid? Beauty shows most art and grace, when she works in little space. Tis her most praiseworthy case, for the force you see compressed, is forced to do its very best, and so it's famed from east to west. As to folk that threat the skies, I never could, for all their sighs, see whereabouts their merit lies. There makes all anti-symmetry, all legs and arms, and grant they be. Handsome and face, what's that, per se? They look like steeples, more extensive than a brain-pan comprehensive. Their clothing must be quite expensive. And then their writing, dancing. Oh, for my part I should like to know. However they could be, the go. Now, your small man does all smugly, fits in every corner snugly, and if he's ugly, he's less ugly. He's a peril who comes off so clean, in a fight who more serene, besides, he's very little seen. Oh, littleness gives half their worth, to the rarest things on earth, pearls our ocean's prettiest berth. But the big are rocks, to spy him, makes the bravest that go nigh him, pale to think of passing by him. Oranges are but small trees, yet in pots low, how they please, they're the garden's protégés. But your mountain pines, that throw one, at such distance who would grow one, to adorn his window, no one. Lastly, mastiffs, see how they, being big, must slink away. Or at best, feel kennels, eh? While your lapdog refuses to be larger than Grace chooses, all in ladies' linen snoozes. Little people, one and all, see if now your prey sings small. See if now you mind the tall. To such reasons, cut and dry, let their heads be near so high. What can they possibly reply? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Invisnade by Gerard Manley Hopkins, read for LibriVox.org by Patrick Wallace. This darksome barren, horseback-brown, his roll-rock high-road roaring down. In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam, flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff bonnet of fawn froth, turns and twindles over the broth of a pool, so pitch-black, fell frowning, it rounds and rounds despair to drowning. Degged with dew, dabbled with dew, are the groins of the braze that the brook treads through. Wiry heave-packs, flitches of fern, and the bead-bonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be once bereft of wet and of wildness? Let them be left. Oh, let them be left wildness and wet. Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Invictus, by William Ernest Henley. Read for LibriVox.org by Kelly Selinger. Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. In the fell-clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years who finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I wandered lonely as a cloud, by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Caroline Silvia. I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high, or veils and hills, and all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils. Beside the lake beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretch the never-ending line along the margin of a bay. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them dance, but they outdid the sparkling waves and glee. The poet could not but be gay in such a jostling company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. For oft and on my couch I lie in vacant or impensive moon. They flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude, and then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Literary Lady by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Read for LibriVox.org by April 9060, California, United States of America. What motley cares Curilla's mind perplex, whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex. In studious disobee behold her sit, a lettered gossip and a household wit. At once invoking, though for different views, her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse. Round her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, a checkered wreck of notable and wise. Bill's books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, oppress the toilet and obscure the glass. Unfinished here in epigram is laid, and there a mantoo-maker's bill unpaid. Here newborn plays for taste of town's applause, there dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, a satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish. Here act the first, and here remove with fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, that soberly casts up a bill of coals. Out pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, and tears and threads and bowls and thimbles mix. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lo, the Press Agent, by Walter J. Kingsley, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. By many names men call me, Press Agent, publicity promoter, faker, off time was a short and simple liar. Charles A. Dana told me I was a buccaneer on the high seas of journalism. Many a newspaper business manager has charged me with selling his space over his head. Everyone loves me when I get his name into print, for this is an age of publicity, and he who bloweth not his own horn the same shall not be blown. I have sired, nursed, and reared many reputations. Few men or women have I found scornful of praise or blame in the Press. The folk of the stage live on publicity, yet to the world they pretend to dislike it, though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it, off times do that for it, which must make the God notoriety grin at the weakness of mortals. I hold a terrible power, and sometimes my own moderation amazes me, for I can abase as well as elevate, tear down as well as build up. I know all the ways of fair speaking, and can lead my favourites to fame and golden rewards. There are a thousand channels through which Press Agency can exploit its star or its movement, never obvious but like the submarine, submersible beneath the sea of publicity. But I know too of the ways that undo in Manhattan. There are a bacilli of rumour that slip through the finest of filters, and defy the remedial serums of angry denial. In a laugh to your tale, and not your exile nor your death, will stay the guffaws of merriment as the story flies through the wicked forties and on to the road. Laughter gives the rumour strong wings. Only the Press Agent, who knows his psychology, likewise is New York in all of its ramifications, and has a nimble wit, can play fast and loose with the lives of many. Nevertheless, he has no great reward, and most in the theatre draw fatter returns than he. Yet is he called upon to make the show, to save the show, but never is he given credit comparable to that which falls upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer who mugs, mimes or hoofs in a hit. Yet is the Press Agent happy. He loves his work, it has excitement and intrigue, and a further the cause of beautiful women to discover the wonderful girls of the theatre and lead them in prographs triumphal till their names out face the jealous night. On Broadway, an incandescence is in itself a privilege that compensates for the wisdom of the cub reporter, the amusement of the seasoned editor, shredding the cherished story and uprooting the flourishing plant. Makes one forgive the ingratitude of artists arrived. They who do not love me, I hope to have fear me. There is only one hell, and that is to be disregarded. This recording is in the public domain. The Love Song of J. Alfred Proofrock by T.S. Allianz. Read for LibriVox.org by Fan Lu Zhang. Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient ditherized upon a table. Let us go through certain half-deserted streets, the martyring retreats of restless nights in one-night-cheap hotels and saddest restaurants with oyster shells. Streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question. Oh, do not ask, what is it? Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that drops its back upon the window panes. The yellow smoke that drops its muzzle on the window panes. Dicks its tongue into the corners of the evening. Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains. That fall upon its back the suit that falls from chimneys. Slept by the trace, made a sudden leap. And seeing that it was a soft October night, curled once about the house and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke that sties along the streets. Rubbing its back upon the window panes. There will be time, there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet. There will be time to murder and create. And time for all the walks and days of hand that lift and drop the question on your plate. Time for you and time for me and time yet for a hundred in decisions and for a hundred visions and revisions before the taking up a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time to wonder, do I dare and do I dare. Time to turn back and descend the stir, with a bold spot in the middle of my hair. They will say, how his hair is growing thin. My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin. My neck tie rich and mother's but asserted by a simple pin. They will say, but how his arms and legs are thin. Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which in a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all. Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. I know the voices dying with the dying fall beneath the music from a father room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all. The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase. And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin. When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall. Then how should I begin? To spit out all the buttons of my days and ways. And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all. Arms that are bracelets and white and bare. But in the lamp light, down with light brown hair. Is it perfume from a dress that makes me so digress? Arms that lie along the table or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say I have gone to dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men in shared sleeves leaning out of windows. I should have been a pair of ragged cloths scuttling across the floors of silences. And the afternoon, the evening sleeps so peacefully. Smoothed by long fingers. A sleep tired or in mudding germs. Stretched on the floor here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, have the strength to force the moment to his crisis? But though I have wept and pasted, wept and prayed. Though I have seen my head grown slightly bold, brought in upon a platter. I am no prophet, and here's no great matter. I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker, and in short I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all? After the cups that marmalade the tea among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me. Would it have been worthwhile to have bitten off the matter with this mind, to have squeezed the universe into a ball, to roll it towards some overwhelming question, to say I am Lazarus, come from the dead. Come back to tell you all. I shall tell you all. If one settling a pillow by her head should say this is not what I meant at all. This is not it at all. And would it have been worth it, after all? Would it have been worthwhile after the sunsets and the door yards and the sprinkled streets, after the novels, after the tea cups, after the skirts that trail along the floor, and this and so much more? It is impossible to say just what I mean. But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves and patterns on a screen, would it have been worthwhile if one settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl and turning toward the window should say that is not it at all. That is not what I meant at all. No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was I meant to be. I am an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two. Advise the prince, no doubt, an easy tool. The French are glad to be of use. Quality, cautious and meticulous. Full of high sentence, but a beat up to use. At times indeed, almost ridiculous. Almost at times, the fool. I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the buttons of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermen singing each to each. I do not think they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves combing the white hair of the waves blown back when the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea where seagulls weath with sea weed red and brown till human voices wake us and we drown. End of part. This recording is in the public domain. Men I'm Not Married To by Dorothy Parker read for Libervox.org by Thomas Peter. No matter where my roots may lie no matter wither I repair in brief no matter how or why or when I go the boys are there on lane and byways street and square on alley path and avenue they seem to spring up everywhere the men I am not married to I watch them as they pass me by at each in wonderment I stare and but for heaven's grace I cry there goes the guy whose name I'd wear they represent no species rare they walk and talk as others do they're fair to see but only fair the men I am not married to I'm sure that to a mother's eye is each potentially a bear but though at home they rank ace high no change of heart could I declare yet worry silvers not their hair they deck them not with sprigs of roue it's curious how they do not care the men I am not married to lawn boy in fact if they'd a chance to share their lot with me a lifetime through they doubtless tender me the air the men I am not married to end of poem this recording is in the public domain the modern house that jack built by anonymous read for LibriVox.org by Philip Gould behold the mansion reared by Didle Jack see the malt stored in many a plethoric sack in the proud cirque of Yvonne's Bivouac mark how the rats felonious fangs invade the golden stores in John's pavilion laid a nun with velvet foot and tarquin stride subtle grimulkin to his quarry glides grimulkin grim that slew the fierce rodent whose tooth insidious Johann sackcloth rant lo now the deep-mouth canine foes assault that vexed the avenger of the stolen malt stored in the hallowed precincts of the hall that rose complete at Jack's creative call here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn whereon the exacerbating hound was torn who bade the feline slaughter-beast that slew the rat predacious whose keen fangs ran through the textile fibers that involved the grain that lay in Hans's and violet domain here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew of their corniculate beast whose torturous horn tossed to the clouds in fierce vindictive scorn the harrowing hound whose braggart bark and stir arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur of pus that with verminicidal claw struck the weird rat in whose insatiate molle reeking malt that erst in Yvon's courts we saw robed in senescent garb that seemed in sooth too long a prey to Crono's iron tooth behold the man whose amorous lips incline full with young arrow's osculative sign to the lorn maiden whose lack albic hands drew albulactic wealth from lactile glands of the immortal bovine by whose horn distort to realm ethereal was born the beast Cthulian vexer of that sly Ulysses quadrupedal who made die the old mordacious rat that dared devour antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower lo here with hearsuit honors doft succinct of saponaceous locks the priest who linked in hymen's golden band the torn unthrift whose means exiguus stared from many a rift even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn who milked the cow with the implicated horn who infined wrath the canine torturer's guide that dared to vex the insidious muricide who let auroral effluence through the pelt of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built the loud cantankerous shanghai comes at last who shouts arouse the shorn ecclesiast who sealed the vows of hymen's sacrament to him who robed in garments indigent exosculates the damsel lacrimose the emulgator of that horned brute morose that tossed the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built end of poem this recording is in the public domain the mother who died too by Edith M. Thomas read for leverbox.org by Helen Z. Ferrara she was so little little in her grave the wide earth all around so hard and cold she was so little therefore did I crave her arms might still her tender form enfold she was so little and her cries so weak when she among the heavenly children came she was so little I alone might speak for her who knew no word nor her own name end of poem this recording is in the public domain my housemaid by anonymous read for leverbox.org by Sonja my housemaid who as our Dresden's wreck we scanned protested with assurance blend it come to pieces in my end my housemaid who tidies sings each Monday morning and hides until with search outworn I wish I never had been born my housemaid who turns my study out that day and then contrives to pitch away as rubbish which it is my play my housemaid who guards within her jealous care mending or marking till I swear the underclothes I long to wear my housemaid who cultivates a habit most perverse of running to the post to meet her brothers such a host my housemaid who if she spends her Sundays out at chapel as she does no doubt must be protractedly devout my housemaid who takes my novels down it must be as she vows of course to dust and some stem much to my disgust my housemaid who can't abide a play or ball but dearly loves a funeral or Exeter's reproachless hall my housemaid who late returning thence in fits of what she terms histories sits and this day month my service quits my housemaid end of poem this recording is in the public domain their ceaseless groans like warnings strike the ear and their large eyes overflow with many a tear so sheriff's men beneath the uncertain light will feign remark and sure that piteous sight seems to proclaim oh fly haste haste your fate draws near now do you mark he whispers to the youth never again my caution turned to joke you see it word for word the thing I spoke these beasts you now behold for certain truth these beasts that snort in pity of our woe our men I say and if you further go trust me the goblin lights upon our head oh do not then by obstinacy lead in spite of good advice provoke that potent foe how friend our hero cries my fixed design spurs me to begad from the caliph there to beg for grinders and a lock of hair plucked from his beard and whilst thou friend of mine that I should paltre from uncertain fear thy wits are lost to counsel such career who knows perchance the goblin is my friend and sure these beasts no mighty ill intend see how they all are fed when once we venture near he says and springs at once among the herd they vanish in a wink like yielding air onward Sir Hewan and his leader Fair in silence undisturbed nor whisper word the day was sunk and night advancing thrills from nodding poppies do's of soft repose in sweet forgetfulness all stilly slept along the wood no mighty murmur crypt all noiseless as the dead whom churchyard graves enclose the square no longer can refrain Sir Knight if chance I draw you from some vision gay forgive me but my weakness must have way no I deny it not at dead of night it ever was my mood from child this year to paddle all is hushed in silence here as if great pan were dead the iron sound of our good steed rings echoing from the ground or as he blindly works the mole would strike the ear you think I fright myself not so I wean yet without posting Sir for after all what air we have mere gifts of heaven I call and many live who oft the dead have seen set man to man clash sword and clatter shield and hack and thrust and turny and in field let two or three against five or six contend I take my part nor fear how all shall end their man can trust his arm and front is full revealed has my full flesh and blood I nothing dread I am his man but this I freely own to go at midnight in a church alone it lifts the hat a little from my head grant that my mind should chance to decompose the hag of night that cross my pathway goes ah what a veiled sharp sword and iron arm against a wicked goblins whispered charm while on my shoulders rings of storm a viewless blows grant to as many an instance makes it clear that from his body I his nottle hue now while it bleeding rolls before my view perched on the stump to heads for one appear and oft the impatient body in full flight pursues the head and air it spins from sight pop puts it on again quite safe and sound as if it were a hat just blown to ground ah how can earthly man with such chimeras fight end of poem this recording is in the public domain Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope Read for LibriVox.org by Silvotica Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound content to breathe his native air in his own ground whose herds with milk whose fields with bread whose flocks supply him with attire whose trees in summer yield him shade in winter fire blessed who can unconcernedly find hours days and years slide soft away in health of body peace of mind quiet by day sound sleep by night study and ease together mixed sweet recreation and innocence which most is pleased with meditation thus let me live unseen unknown thus unlimited let me die steal from the world and not a stone tell where I lie end of poem this recording is in the public domain Ode by Henry Louis Vivien de Rosio Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist from the Persian of Huffys freely translated say what's the rose without the smile of her I deem more fair and what are all the sweets of spring if wine be wanting there oh who will pause the choice to doubt of walks where music rings or bowers in richest bloom without the notes the bubble sings in vain the cypress waves in vain a thousand flower at sigh without the cheek whose tint excels the tulips crimson dye yet what are lips where sweetness clings and cheeks where roses dwell without the kiss the joy the bliss of pleasures potent spell the wine and garden both are sweet but sweetest wine and grove I loathe if there I cannot meet the face and form I love the brightest fairest works of art that skillful hands devise are not without the hand and heart of her I fondest prize and what's my life perhaps a coin a trifling coin at best unheeded in by Pusser by unfit for bridal guest March 1826 End of poem this recording is in the public domain On the letter I by George Gordon Lord Byron read for LibriVox.org by Sonya On the letter I written in a lady's scrapbook I am not in youth nor in manhood nor age but in infancy ever am known I'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage and though I'm distinguished in history's page I always am greatest alone I am not in earth nor the sun nor the moon you may search all the sky I'm not there in the morning and evening though not in the noon you may plainly perceive me for like a balloon I am midway suspended in air I am always in riches and yet I am told wealth never did my presence desire I dwell with the miser but not with his gold and sometimes I stand in his chimney so cold though I serve as a part of the fire I often am met in political life in my absence no kingdom can be and they say there can neither be friendship nor strife no one can live single no one take a wife without interfering with me my brethren are many and of my whole race not one is more slender and tall and though not the eldest I hold the first place and even in dishonour, despair and disgrace I boldly appear among them all though disease may possess me and sickness and pain I am never in sorrow or gloom though in wit and in wisdom I equally reign the heart of all sin and have long lived in vain yet I never shall be found in the tomb End of poem This recording is in a public domain Brought to you down to heaven No more, no more You'll freely soar above the grass and gravel Henceforth you'll walk and she will chalk The line that you're to travel End of poem This recording is in a public domain A lad is singing somewhere in the street His voice careless and free recalls Cilicia, Tarsus, my city where the kindness flows recalls those first far days when in my heart no pain had found a place and I was Saul, named for the son of Kish a Benjamin, a young man a young man, a young man a young man, a young man a young man, a young man a young man, a young man named for the son of Kish, a Benjamin How swiftly age turns back the gate of time and with what eager pace pursues the path trod by the feet of childhood I can see the scarlet-proud Phoenician ships tri-remes down from the Tiber and Egyptian barges abundant frutige of the date and palm Tall Bacchic Amphora and perfumed bales of Tyrian purple stand along Decoy and I can hear the sailors in their songs the strange brown mariners of many seas with arms like anchor cables in their strength oh then I was a wanderer of earth and dreamed a brave adventure in far lands they say the Hebrew burning in my blood closed all life's doors save one upon the world that I the Pharisee of Pharisees contend the beauty and the song of Greece How little do they know my Timothy my dear disciple and my bosom friend heart, soul, feet, hands, eyes, ears and lips of Paul how little do they know tomorrow morning without the city wall I shall kneel down before the Roman sword and die O death, where is thy sting O grave, the lad still sings without could hear his song Anachrianne Saffo he, a thinning I think to such a voice as that which Eunice heard son of the faith once and for all delivered often the streets of Listeras eventide telling of Timothy returning home or ever thou didst follow Christ and Paul why doth he sing and hail me back to life who on the morning must die An Saffo song flee from this wicked world ordained to death the wrath of God is kindled in the sky and Babylon shall be consumed in smoke how all the gold has gone from out the west to crimson now and on the forum falls a menace as a blood O Babylon, the cup of thine iniquity is fall and runneth over even to the ground still doth he sing an always Saffo song O Greece, the tongue of Homer and of Paul is in that song behold the sound thereof goes forth unto the ends of all the world and neither speech nor language shall prevail upon its magic and its mastery how little do they know son Timothy of Paul the prisoner of Jesus Christ a Pharisee yea, straightest of that sect learned in the law I from Gamelio and persecutor of the church of God Saul who consented unto Stephen's death aha, woe is me yet little do they know who know not this the law of sin and death is done away in Christ by whom all things are sanctified and neither Jew nor Greek and neither bond nor free exist in him who is the first begotten son of God the keystone of life's slow ascending arch and who completeth all things in himself Nathlas, I found this truth not easily in those far boyhood days beside the kindness watching the sailors and the ships I felt shame of my passion for the many tones and tinctures of the colored sails and prowls shame of the tumult of my heart its song sung by the boatman for the law is hard and precious with a heavy hand upon youth and the innocent delights of youth young Rabbi Saul the thunderer and Saul consenting unto Stephen's death are dead slain by the piercing of the cross of Christ Christ of the lilies he who loved the fields and heard the children in the marketplace complaining at the unresponsive feet and ears deaf to their piping and sweet song doth he know my lads singing in the street my young Athenian whose voice for Paul breathes ave atke valet on the world Christ is not quickly learned and gradual is the progression of a soul to him hard strove I through the barriers of thought and one by one dissolve the old ideas that misted or the mountains of desire before I found that all things beautiful like lilies of the open field are spread beneath the benediction of his love write this again there is no bond nor free there is the faith and this is Jesus Christ the savior of the world think what it means o Timothy this faith thou hast received to give and guard at Ephesus that fall distinctions from henceforth to keep in one the diverse aspirations of mankind Jerusalem and Alexandria Rome, Athens, Corinth and Iconium Moses and Socrates, Plato and Paul Isaiah, Homer and Euripides Bezalel and thine own Phadias and Sappho all are in his heart the feet of him who bears that letter speed asbed by deputies all inspired scripture is given of God for nothing beautiful lives but by breathing of the Holy Ghost force is of Satan art the child of God and they who like this foredoomed Babylon build citadels cemented by men's blood are numbered with the damned am I not no am I not Paul the prisoner of Christ creators of sweet sounds and lovely forms care not for Babylon they seek the hills and know God in the thunders of the seas they find him where pomegranate and the pine are passionate with pleading of all souls that are withdraws of earth unsatisfied this have I learned from the Athenian who sings the song of Sappho unto Paul the golden scarlet from the west night falls and Rome is like the galaxy indefinite with stars the myriad of tiny flames are flaring on the hills and in those evening fires the souls of men are manifested souls that upward burn in emulation of the beautiful for the invisible pure things of him from the creation of the world are seen and understood by what is made one God one law one hope one faith and one desire and in the impulse of creative hands and on the lips that sing as sings the lad to Paul the prisoner great Sappho song in the poem this recording is in the public domain the pulley by George Herbert read for LibriVox.org by Tom Cooper 18 May 2018 when God at first made man having a glass of blessing it's standing by let us said he pour on him all we can let the world's riches which dispersed lie contract into a span so strength first made away then beauty flowed then wisdom, honor, pleasure when almost all was out God made a stay perceiving that alone of all his treasure in the bottom lay for if I should said he bestow this Jew also on my creature he would adore my gifts instead of me and rest in nature not the God of nature so both should losers be yet let him keep the rest but keep them with repining restlessness let him be rich and weary that at least if goodness lead him not yet weariness may toss him to my breast end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sappho by Henry Louis Vivien de Rosia read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist and love too much and yet cannot love less Don Dewan can't oh four her love was like the raging of a storm sweeping all things before it and her song was like her soul of passion wild and warm she could not brook a slight or suffer wrong and when her heart the treacherous wound received from him who should have sheltered her from harm and soothed her every sorrow when she grieved oh how the gushing blood did inly flow oh how she wept his falsehood and her woe hers was melodious mourning like the dew her bright tears fell for madness made her weep too soon her golden winged pleasures flew too soon she sank into a slumber deep low high Lucadia now can tell where she doth sleep May 1827 End of poem this recording is in the public domain Sea Fever by John Masefield read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp I must down to the seas again to the lonely sea and the sky and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by and the wheels kick and the winds song and the white sails shaking and a gray mist on the seas face and a gray dawn breaking I must down to the seas again for the call of the running tide is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied and all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying and the flung spray and the blown spume and the sea galls crying I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life to the gall's way and the whale's way where the winds like a whetted knife and all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long tricks over End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Self-Same Song by Thomas Hardy read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson A bird sings the self-same song with never a forth in its flow that we listened to hear those long, long years ago A pleasing marvel is how a strain of such rapturous rote should have gone on thus till now unchanged in a note but it's not the self-same bird No, perish to dust is he as also are those who heard that song with me End of poem this recording is in the public domain Sonnet 21 Petrarch congratulates Bocacio on his return to the right path by Francesco Petrarch 1300 and 4 to 1374 read for LibriVox.org Love grieved and I with him at times to see by what strange practices and cunning art he still continued from his fetters free from whom my feet were never far apart Since to the right way brought by God's decree lifting my hands to heaven with pious heart I thank him for his love and grace for he the sole prayer of the just will never thwart and if returning to the amorous strife its fair desire to teach us to deny hollows and hillocks in thy path abound it is but to prove to us with thorns how rife the narrow way the ascent how hard and high where with true virtue man at last is crowned translated by McGregor End of poem this recording is in the public domain Spring Storm by William Carlos Williams read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schimpf the sky has given over its bitterness out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls as if it would never end still the snow keeps its hold on the ground but water water from a thousand runnels it collects swiftly dabbled with black cuts away for itself through green ice in the gutters drop after drop it falls from the withered grass stems of the overhanging embankment End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Theatre Scrubbleman Dreams a Dream by Samuel Hoffenstein read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter when morning mingles with the gloom on empty stage and twilight aisle she comes with a rag and pan and broom to work and dream a while illusions laughter fancies tears the mimic loves of yesterday night an empty stages of the years awake in the dim light she cannot sweep the phantoms out how sweet the sobbing violin she cannot put the ghosts to route how pale the heroine oh valiant hero sorely tired it is only dust that fills her eyes but he shall have his lovely bride and she her paradise and she the broom falls from her hands and is it dust that fills her eyes shall go with him to golden lands and find her paradise the morning wrestles with the gloom on silent stage and chilly aisle she takes her rag and pan and broom to work and dream a while end of poem this recording is in the public domain there will come soft rains from Flame and Shadow by Sarah Teesdale read for LibriVox.org by Paddy Finnegan there will come soft rains and the smell of the ground and swallows circling with their shimmering sound and frogs in the pools singing at night and wild plum trees in tremulous white Robbins will bear their feathery fire whistling their whims on a low fence wire and not one will know of the war not one will care at last when it is done not one would mind neither bird nor tree if mankind perished utterly and spring herself when she woke at dawn would scarcely know that we were gone end of poem this recording is in the public domain they all want to play Hamlet by Carl Sandberg read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp they all want to play Hamlet they have not exactly seen their fathers killed or their mothers in a frame-up to kill nor anophilia dying with a dust gagging the heart not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders not exactly have this they got at nor the meaning of flowers flowers slung by a dancing girl in the saddest play the Inkfish Shakespeare ever wrote yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker's skull in the hand and then to say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a heart that's breaking this is something that calls and calls to their blood they are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet they all want to play Hamlet end of poem this recording is in the public domain they by Siegfried Cessone read for LibriVox.org by Helen Z. Ferrara the bishop tells us when the boys come back they will not be the same but they'll have fought in a just cause they lead the last attack on antichrist their comrades blood has bought new right to breed an honorable race they have challenged death and dared him face to face when none of us the same the boys reply for George lost both his legs and Bill Stone blind poor Jim shot through the lungs and like to die and Bert's conceptic you'll not find a chap who served that hasn't found some change and the bishop said the ways of God are strange end of poem this recording is in the public domain to a snowflake by Francis Thompson read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gochuk what heart could have thought you past our divisal of filigree petal fashion so purely fragilely surely from what paradisal imagine less metal too costly for cost who hammered you brought you from Argentine vapor God was my shaper passing Sir Meisel he hammered he brought me from curled silver vapor to lust of his mind thou could not have thought me so purely so palely tidily surely mightily fraily in sculpt and embossed with his hammer of wind and his graver of frost end of poem this recording is in the public domain to the dog star by Henry Louis Vivien DeRosio read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist how the Chaldean watched the brightest star brightest and loveliest in the vault of heaven there dost thou shine and shine like hope afar and at the soft, sweet, silent hour of even while airy spirits breathing fragrance fly and fan my temples with their odorous wings thy trembling light to watch and worship I go forth this to my heart such rapture brings as never may be told thy lovely light eternal serious calls one dear to mind for oh her form was beautiful and bright and like thy ray her soul was most refined and made for tenderness and purest love then smile on her bright star smile sweetly from above April, 1827 end of poem this recording is in the public domain to the thawing wind by Robert Frost read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf come with rain, oh loud southwester bring the singer, bring the nester give the buried flower a dream make the saddled snowbank steam find the brown beneath the white but what ere you do tonight bathe my window, make it flow melt it as the ice will go melt the glass and leave the sticks like a hermit's crucifix burst into my narrow stall swing the picture on the wall run the rattling pages oar scatter poems on the floor turn the poet out of door end of poem this recording is in the public domain Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson read for LibriVox.org by Fanlon Jahangir it little profits that an idle king by this is still harsh among these bad and cracks matched with an aged wife I meet and dull unequal laws unto a savage race that hoard and sleep and feed and know not me I cannot rest from travel I will drink life to the less all times I have enjoyed greatly have suffered greatly both with those that loved me and alone unsure and when through scudding drifts the rainy hades vex the deep sea I am become a name for always roaming with a hungry heart much have I seen and known cities of men and manners, climates, councils, governments myself not least but honored of them all and drank the light of battle with my peers on the ringing plains of Windy Troy I am a part of all that I have met yet all experience is an arch where through gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades forever and forever when I move how dull it is to pause to make an end to rust and burnish not to shine in use as though to breeze were life life piled on life as though to little and of one to me little remains but every hour is saved from that eternal silence something more a bringer of new things and why it were for some three sons to store and hold myself and this gray spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star beyond the utmost bound of human thoughts this is my son, my non-telemachus to whom I leave the scepter and the eye well loved of me discerning to fulfill this labor by a slow prudence to make mild a rugged people and through soft decrees subdue them to the useful and the good most blameless he sees centered in the sphere of common duties descent not to fail in offices of tenderness and pay meet adoration to my household gods when I am gone he walks his walk I mine there lies the port the vessel pops her sail they're gloom the dark broad seas my mariners souls that have told and rotten thought with me that ever with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine and opposed free hearts free foreheads you and I are old old age had yet his honor and his toil death closes off but something early end some work of noble note may yet be done not unbecoming men that strove with gods the lights begin to twinkle from the rocks the long day veins the slow moon climbs the deep moans rounded many voices come my friends this not too late to seek a newer world push off and sitting well in order to smite the sounding furrows from my purpose holes to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the western stars until I die it may be that the gold will wash us down it may be we shall touch the happy hearts and see the great Achilles whom we knew though much is taken much abides and though we are not now the strengths which in old days moved earth and heaven that which we are we are one equal temper of heroic hearts made weak by time and fate but strong in will to strive to seek to find and not to yield