 Ophelia by Walter de la Mer, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake, there runs a criss-cross pattern of small leaves, espalier, in a fading summer air. And there Ophelia walks, an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now, in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile. Only a lovely gray in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string. Ivy she hath, that too old ruin clings. And rosemary, that seems remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But ah, if utterable, would this earth remain the base, unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out, out of hearing of all useless words, spoken of tedious tongues and heedless ears, at least, at last, the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steal, better the glassy horror of the stream, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia There runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in the fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now, in that sweet crooked mouth that vacant smile. Only a lonely gray in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string. Fishy hath to that old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams, but ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest, at last, the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string. Ivy she hath that too old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams, but ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest, at last, the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter Delamere, read for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. Ophelia, there runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks, an azure flower whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile, only a lonely gray in those mad eyes which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath that two old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But, ah, if utterable, would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is? Better be out of sight of peering eyes, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim-thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There is a beauty past all weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile, only a lonely gray in those mad eyes which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath that two old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But, ah, if utterable, would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is? Better be out of sight of peering eyes, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim-thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There runs a criss-cross pattern of small leaves asphalia in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile, only a lonely gray in those mad eyes which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when, amid startled birds, she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath that two old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But, ah, if utterable, would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim-thickered steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter de Lamaire, read for Librivox.org by Catherine Spencer-Howard, Friday the 2nd of March 2007, Ophelia. There runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile. Ophelia lonely grey in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when, amid startled birds, she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's loot hath a broken string. Ivy she hath that to old ruin clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and panses deeper than the gloom of dreams. But, ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out of hearing of all useless words, spoken of tedious tongs in heedless ears. And lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steal, better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter D. Lamar Redfall LibriVox.org by Lucy Burgoyne. Ophelia there runs a criss-cross pattern of small leaves as failure in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azule flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past or weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth that they can smile, only a lonely grey in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when a mid-startled bird she seems lament, mocking in hope that long voice of the stream. It seems her heart's blue-teth a broken string, ivy she hath that two old ruined clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom it dreams, but ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base, unreal thing it is, better be out of sight appearing eyes, out appearing of all useless words, spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim-ticket steal, better the glassy horror of the stream. It's the 25th of February, and we're at Podcamp Toronto, 2007, Ophelia. There runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there are Ophelia walks, an azure flower whom wind and snowflakes, and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now, in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile, only a lonely grey in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when a mid-startled bird she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath, that too old ruined clings and rosemary, that seize remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams, but ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base, unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of appearing eyes, out out of hearing of all useless words, spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel, better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter de La Mer Recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley There runs a criss-crossed pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks, an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now, in that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smile, only a lonely gray in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath that too old ruin clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But are, if utterable, would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears, and lest at last the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter de la Mer For Librevox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. There runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azure flower whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now in that sweet crooked mouth that vacant smile. Only a gray in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's loot hath a broken string, ivy she hath, that too old ruin clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But ah, if utterable, would this earth remain the base unreal thing it is? Better be out of sight of peering eyes, out, out of hearing of all useless words, spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears. And lest, at last, the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ophelia by Walter de la Mer, read for Librivox.org by Val Grim. There runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves espalier in a fading summer air, and there Ophelia walks an azure flower, whom wind and snowflakes and the sudden rain of love's wild skies have purified to heaven. There is a beauty past all weeping now, in that sweet crooked mouth that vacant smile. Only a lonely gray in those mad eyes, which never on earth shall learn their loneliness. And when amid startled birds she sings lament, mocking in hope the long voice of the stream, it seems her heart's lute hath a broken string, ivy she hath the twold-ruining clings, and rosemary that sees remembrance fade, and pansies deeper than the gloom of dreams. But, ah, if utterable would this earth remain the base on real thing it is, better be out of sight of peering eyes, out of hearing of all useless words spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears. And lest it lasts, the world should learn heart secrets, lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steel better the glassy horror of the stream.