 As you came from the holy land, by Walter Raleigh, read for LibriVox.org by Justin Brett, as you came from the holy land of Walsingham, met you not with my true love, by the way as you came. How shall I know your true love, that have met many one as I went to the holy land, that have come, that have gone? She is neither white nor brown, but as the heavens fair. There is none hath a form so divine in the earth or the air. Such and one did I meet, good sir, such an angelic face, Who like a queen like a nymph did appear by her gate, by her grace. She hath left me here all alone, all alone as unknown. Who sometimes did me lead with herself, and me loved as her own? What's the cause that she leaves you alone, and a new way doth take? Who loved you once as her own, and her joy did you make? I have loved her all my youth, but now old as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit from the wizard tree. Know that love is a careless child, and forgets promise past. He is blind, he is deaf when he list, and in faith never fast. His desire is a durless content, and a trustless joy. He is one with a world of despair, and is lost with a toy. Of womankind such indeed is the love, or the word love abused, under which many childish desires and conceits are excused. But true love is a durable fire in the mind ever burning. Never sick, never old, never dead, from itself never turning. The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville Nine that day. The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first and Burroughs did the same, a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that. They put up even money now with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey as did also Jimmy Blake, and the former was a puddin, and the latter was a fake. So upon the stricken multitude grim melon-colly sat, for there seemed but little hope of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, and Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, there was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there arose a mighty yell. It rumbled in the valley and it rattled on the dell. It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled on the flat, for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped up to his place. There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, no stranger in the crowd could doubt twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt. And when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, defiance gleamed in Casey's eye a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere comes hurtling through the air, and Casey stands a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheated sped. That ain't my style, said Casey. Strike one, the umpire said. From the benches black with people there arose a muffled roar like the beating of the storm waves on some stern and distant shore. Kill him, kill the umpire, shouted someone in the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visit shone, he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on. He signaled to the pitcher and once more the spheroid flew, but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, strike two. Fraud, cried the maddened thousands, and Echo answered, fraud, but one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone, from Casey's lip his teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, but there is no joy in Mudville. Mighty Casey has struck out. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802, by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Bobby. Earth has not anything to show more fair. How old would he be of soul, who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty? This city now doth like a garment where, the beauty of the morning, silent, bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky. All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill. There saw I never felt a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very houses seem asleep, and all that mighty heart is lying still. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Holy Sonnet 10. Death Be Not Proud by John Dunne. Read for LibriVox.org by David Grimes. Death Be Not Proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For those whom thou thinkst, thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep which but thy pictures be much pleasure. Then from thee much more must flow. And soonest are best men with thee do go. Rest of their bones and souls deliver. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, and dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell. And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, and better than thy stroke. Why swells thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more. Death thou shalt die. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. In August by Babette Deutsch. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Heat urges secret odours from the grass. Blunting the edge of silence crickets shrill. Wings veer, innate needles of light and pass. Laced pools, the warm wood shadows ebb and fill. The wind is casual, loitering to crush the sun upon his pallet, and to draw pungents from pine, frank fragrances from brush, sucked up through thin gray boughs as through a straw. Moss green, fern green, and leaf and meadow green, are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads, less moved by stirring air than by unseen, soft-footed ants and meditative toads. Summer is passing, taking what she brings. Green scents and sounds and quick ephemeral wings. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Little Nipper and His Maw by George Fofill-Guro Recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. You know me little nipper, says energy orkins, MP, while he's a little champion, and takes on after me. Last Sunday me and the missus went out for a little walk. I should say the nipper took us, you should have heard him talk. We went along through Tyburn, and then by Endon Way, where I used to do me courting in those sweet nights of May. We'd been walking out an hour. When Sal, she says to me, Here, Harry, is your game, dear, for shrimps and a cup of tea? Gone, says I, the Sally. I'm in for half-and-half. Oh, lummy, you should just heard my little Sally laugh. Of course, she says, I like to be nip a gin and a glass of beer, but I did not like to say it out before the nipper ear. The nipper ear weren't looking as we neared the broker's arms, and in me opts to get a wet, not dreaming any arm. But the nipper, he were cagey, and followed in the rear, and ears me give me order. Here, miss, two pots of beer. And when I give me order, I turns to speak to Sal to ask if she remembered the day she was me gal. I felt someone tugging and pulling at me back. I looks around, surprised like, and sees that rascal, Jack. Says I, See you, me nipper, I won't have your hang in here. Says he, Do you think I'm going? Not me, no ballet fear. Now then, what have you ordered? Says I, Two half-and-half. Says he, Ain't mother in it? And ye shoulda heard him laugh. This recording is in the public domain. Minerva Cheevy by Edwin Arlington Robinson Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Bobby Minerva Cheevy, child of scorn, grew lean while he assailed the seasons. He wept that he was ever born, and he had reasons. Minerva loved the days of old, when swords were bright and steeds were prancing. The vision of a warrior bold would set him dancing. Minerva sighed for what was not, and dreamed, and rested from his labours. He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, and Priam's neighbours. Minerva mourned the ripe renown that made so many a name so fragrant. He mourned romance, now on the town, and art of vagrant. Minerva loved the Medici, albeit he had never seen one. He would have sinned incessantly, could he have been one. Minerva cursed the commonplace, and eyed a khaki suit with loathing. He missed the medieval grace of iron-clothing. Minerva scorned the gold he sought, but sore annoyed was he without it. Minerva thought, and thought, and thought, and thought about it. Minerva Cheevy, born too late, scratched his head and kept on thinking. Minerva coughed, and called it fate, and kept on drinking. This recording is in the public domain. Monotone by Carl Sandberg, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Ann Walden, February 2007. The monotone of the rain is beautiful, and the sudden rise and slow relapse of the long, multitudinous rain. The sun on the hills is beautiful, or a captured sunset sea-flung bannered with fire and gold. A face I know is beautiful, with fire and gold of sky and sea, and the peace of long, warm rain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Bobby. A Noiseless Patient Spider, I marked whereon a little promontory it stood isolated, marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, it launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, O my soul, where you stand, surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold, till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere. O my soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O Lord, Thy wing outspread by William John Blue, read for LibriVox.org by Katherine Monakia. O Lord, Thy wing outspread, and us Thy flock enfold, Thy broad wing spread that covered, Thy mercy seat of old, and o'er our nightly roof, and round our daily path, keep watch and ward and hold aloof, the devil and his wrath. For Thou dost fence our head, and shield ye Thou alone, the peasant on his pallet bed, the prince upon his throne. Make then our heart Thine arc, whereon Thy mystic dove, may brood enlighten it when dark with beams of peace and love. That dearer far to Thee than gold of Cedar Shrine, the bodies of Thy saints may be, the souls by Thee made Thine. So nevermore be stirred, that voice within our hearts, the fearful word that once was heard, up let us hence depart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O Mistress Mine by William Shakespeare, read for LibriVox.org by Robert Hespie. O Mistress Mine, where are you roaming? O stay in here. Your true love's coming that can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweet'ing, journeys end in lover's meeting. Every wise man's son doth know. What is love, just not hereafter. Present mirth, hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty. Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. Youth's stuff will not endure. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Strings and the Earth and Air by James Joyce for LibriVox.org Narrated by Sean McKinley. Strings and the Earth and Air make music sweet. Strings by the river where the willows meet. There's music along the river for love wanders there. Pale flowers on his mantle, dark leaves on his hair. All softly playing with head to the music bent, and fingers straying upon an instrument. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Sun Has Long Been Set by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Beth Peat in Reading, UK. The Sun Has Long Been Set. The stars are out by twos and threes. The little birds are piping yet among the bushes and the trees. There's a cuckoo and one or two thrushes, and a far-off wind that rushes, and a sound of water that gushes, and the cuckoo's sovereign cry fills all the hollow of the sky. Who would go parading in London and masquerading on such a night of June with that beautiful soft half-moon and all these innocent blisses on such a night as this is? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Child in Death by Charlotte Mew. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. You would have scoffed if we had told you yesterday love made us feel, or so it was with me, like some great bird trying to hold and shelter you in its strong wing. A gay little shadow smile would have tossed us back such a solemn word, and it was not for that you were listening when so quietly you slipped away with half the music of the world unheard. What shall we do with this strange summer meant for you, dear, if we see the winter through, what shall be done with spring? This, this, the victory of the grave, here is death's sting, that is not strong enough, our strongest wing. But what of his, who, like a father pitieth, his son was also once a little thing, the wistfulest child that ever drew breath, chased by a sword from Bethlehem, and in the busy house of Nazareth playing with little rows of nails, watching the carpenter's hammer swing, long before his hands and feet were tied, and by a hammer and three great nails he died. Of youth, of spring, of sorrow, of loneliness, of victory, the king, under the shadow of that wing. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Travelling Bear by Amy Lowell. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Grass blades push up between the cobblestones and catch the sun on their flat sides, shooting it back, gold and emerald, into the eyes of passers-by. And over the cobblestones, square-footed and heavy, dances the trained bear. The cobbles cut his feet, and he has a ring in his nose, but still he dances, for the keeper pricks him with a sharp stick under his fur. Now the crowd gapes and chuckles, and the boys and young women shuffle their feet in time to the dancing bear. They see him wobbling against the dust of emerald and gold, and they are greatly delighted. The legs of the bear shake with fatigue, and his back aches, and the shining grass blades dazzle and confuse him, but still he dances, because of the little pointed stick. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Twilight Turns from Amethyst by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org. Narrated by Sean McKinley. The Twilight Turns from Amethyst to Deep and Deeper Blue. The lamp fills with the pale green glow the trees of the avenue. The old piano plays in air, sedate and slow and gay. She bends upon the yellow keys, her head inclines this way. Shy thought and grave-wide eyes and hands that wander as they list, the Twilight turns to darker blue with lights of amethyst. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses Upon the Burning of Our House, July 18, 1666. By Ann Bradstreet. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Here follows some verses upon the burning of our house, July 18, 1666, copied out of a loose paper. In silent night, when rest I took, for sorrow near I did not look, I wakened was with thundering noise and piteous shrieks of dreadful voice. That fearful sound of fire and fire, let no man know is my desire. I started up, the light did spy, and to my God my heart did cry to straighten me in my distress and not to leave me succourless. The flame consumed my dwelling place, and when I could no longer look, I blessed his grace that gave and took, that laid my goods now in the dust. Yea, so it was, and so it was just. It was his own, it was not mine. Far be it that I should repine. He might of all justly bereft, but yet sufficient for us left. When, by the ruins, oft I passed, my sorrowing eyes aside did cast, and here and there the places spy were oft I sat and long did lie. Here stood that trunk, and there that chest, there lay the store I counted best. My pleasant things and ashes lie, and them behold no more shall I. Under the roof no guest shall sit, nor at thy table eat a bit. No pleasant talk shall air be told, nor things recounted done of old. No candle air shall shine in thee. No bridegroom's voice air heard shall be. In silence ever shall thou lie. A-do, a-do, all's vanity. Then straight I gain my heart to chide, and did thy wealth on earth abide. Didst fix thy hope on mouldering dust, the arm of flesh didst make thy trust? Raise up thy thoughts above the sky, that dung-hill mist away may fly. Thou hast a house on high erect, framed by that mighty architect, with glory richly furnished stands permanent, though this be fled. It's purchased and paid for too, by him who hath enough to do. A price so vast as is unknown, yet by his gift is made thine own. There's wealth enough, I need no more. Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store, the world no longer let me love. My hope and treasures lie above. When I Heard the Learned Astronomer by Walt Whitman Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Bobby When I Heard the Learned Astronomer, when the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, when I was shown the charts and diagrams to add, divide, and measure them, When I, sitting, Heard the Astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room, how soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, till rising and gliding out, I wandered off by myself in the mystical, moist night air, and from time to time looked up in perfect silence at the star's end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Written on the top of Ben Neves by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Julian Jameson Read me a lesson, muse, and speak it loud upon the top of Neves, blind in mist. I look into the chasms, and a shroud vaporous doth hide them. Just so much I wist mankind do know of hell. I look o'erhead, and there is sullen mist. Even so much mankind can tell of heaven. Mist is spread before the earth, beneath me. Even such, even so vague is man's sight of himself. Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet. Thus much I know that a poor, witless elf I tread on them. That all my eye doth meet is mist and crag. Not only on this height, but in the world of thought and mental might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When I was young, I willful when, I for the change, twix now and then. This breathing-house not built with hands, this body that does me grievous wrong, or airy cliffs and glittering sands, how lightly then it flashed along. Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, unwinding lakes and rivers wide, that ask no aid of sail or oar, that fear no spite of wind or tide. Not care of this body for wind or weather, when youth and I lived in it together. Flowers are lovely, love is flower-like, friendship is a sheltering tree. O the joys that came down shower-like, of friendship, love and liberty ere I was old. ere I was old, I willful air, which tells me youth's no longer here. O youth, for years so many and sweet, to snow that thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit, it cannot be that thou art gone. By Vesperbell hath not yet told, and thou were'd I a masquer bold. What strange disguise hath now put on to make believe that thou art gone. I see these locks and silvery slips, this drooping gate, this altered size, but spring-tide blossoms on thy lips and tears take sunshine from thine eyes. Life is but thought, so think I will that youth and I are housemates still. Dewdrops are the gems of mourning, but the tears of mournful eve, where no hope is life's a warning that only serves to make us grieve when we are old. That only serves to make us grieve with often tedious taking leave, like some poor nigh-related guest that may not rudely be dismissed, yet hath outstayed his welcome-wile, and tells the jest without the smile.