 The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Bridget Rafferty Listen, my children and you shall hear of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere on the 18th of April in 75. Hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend if the British March by land or sea from the town to night hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the north church tower as a signal light, one if by land and two if by sea, and I on the opposite shore will be, ready to ride and spread the alarm through every middle sex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm. Then he said good night and with muffled oar silently rode to the Charleston shore, just as the moon rose over the bay, where swinging wide at her moorings lay the Somerset British man of war, a phantom ship with each mast and spar, across the moon like a prison bar and a huge black hulk that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend through alley and street wanders and watches with eager ears till in the silence around him he hears the muster of men at the barrack door, the sound of arms and the tramp of feet and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the old north church by the wooden stairs with stealthy tread to the belfry chamber overhead and startled the pigeons from their perch on their somber rafters that round him made, masses and moving shapes of shade by the trembling ladders steep and tall to the highest window in the wall, where he paused to listen and looked down a moment on the roofs of the town and the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath in the churchyard lay the dead in their night encampment on the hill, wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear like in sentinels tread the watchful night wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent and seeming to whisper all as well, a moment only he feels the spell of the place and the hour and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead for suddenly all his thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away where the river widens to meet the bay, a line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walked Paul Revere, now he padded his horse's side now he gazed at the landscape far and near, then impetuous stamped the earth and turned and tightened his saddle girth, but mostly he watched with ear-search the belfry tower of the Old North Church as it rose above the graves on the hill lonely and spectral and somber and still and low as he looks on the belfry's height a glimmer and then a gleam of light. He springs to the saddle, the brittle he turns, but lingers and gazes till full on his sight a second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark and beneath from the pebbles in passing a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and flea, that was all and yet through the gloom and the light the fate of a nation was riding that night and the spark struck out by that steed in his flight kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep and beneath him tranquil and broad and deep is the mystic meeting the ocean tides, and under the altars that skirt its edge, now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, his heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock and the barking of the farmer's dog and felt the damp of the river fog that rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock when he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weather cock swim in the moonlight as he passed and the meeting house windows black and bare gaze at him with a spectral glare as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleeding of the flock and the Twitter of the birds among the trees and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadow brown and one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall who that day would be lying dead pierced by a British musket ball. You know the rest in the books you have read how the British regulars fired and fled how the farmers gave them ball for ball from behind each fence and farmyard wall chasing the red coats down the lane then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road and only pausing to fire and load. So through the night wrote Paul Revere and so through the night when his cry of alarm to every middle sex village and farm a cry of defiance and not of fear a voice in the darkness a knock at the door and a word that shall echo forevermore for born on the night wind of the past through all our history to the last in the hour of darkness and peril and need the people will waken and listen to hear the hurrying hoof beats of that steed and the midnight message of Paul Revere. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thank you. The bees of Middleton Manor by Mae Proben read for LibriVox.org by Cricket. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing my golden belted bees my little son was seven years old the mint flower touched his knees yellow were his curly locks yellow were his stocking clocks his plaything of a sword had a diamond in its held where the garden beds lay sunny and the bees were making honey for God and the king to arms to arms the day long would he lilt. Smocked in lace and flowered brocade my pretty son of seven wept sore because the kitten died and left the charge uneven. I had one battalion mother kitty sobbed he let the other and when we reached the beehive bench we used to halt and storm the trench if we could plant our standard here with all the bees a buzzing near and fly the colors safe from sting the town was taken for the king. Flitting, flitting over the time my bees with yellow band my little son of seven came close and clipped me by the hand a wreath of morning cloth was wound his small left arm and saw tilled round and on the thatch of every hive a wisp of black was bound. Sweet mother we must tell the bees or they will swarm away ye little bees he called draw nigh and hark to what I say and make us golden honey still for our white wheat and bread though never more we rush on war with kitty at our head who'll give the toast when swords are crossed now kitty lieth dead buzzing buzzing buzzing my bees of yellow girth my son of seven changed his mood and clasped me in his mirth sweet mother when I grow a man and fall on battlefield he cried and down in the daisied grass upon one knee he kneeled I charge thee come and tell the bees how I for the king lie dead and thou shalt never lack fine honey for thy wheat and bread flitting, flitting, flitting my busy bees alas no footstep of my soldier son came clinking through the grass thrice he kissed me for farewell and far on the stone his shadow fell he buckled spurs and sword-belt on as the sun began to stoop set foot in stirrup and sprang to horse and row to join his troop to the west he rode where the winds were at play and Monmouth's army mustering lay where bridgewater flew her banner high and gave up her keys when the duke came by and the maids of Taunton paid him court with colours their own white hands had wrought and read as a field where blood doth run Sedgemore blazed in the setting sun broided sash and clasp of gold my soldier son alas the mint was all in flour and the clover and the grass with every bed in bloom I said what further lack the bees that they buzz so loud like a restless cloud among the orchard trees no voice in the air from Sedgemore field moaned out how grey and the horse had reeled met me no ghost with haunting eyes that westward pointed mid its size and pulled apart a bloody vest and show the sword-gush in its breast empty hives and flitting bees and sunny morning hours I snipped the blossomed lavender and the pinks and the jilly flowers no petal trembled in my hold I saw not the dead stretch stark and cold on the trampled turf at the shepherd's door the cloak in the doublet monmouth whore with monmouth scarf and head gear on and the eyes not closed of my soldier son I knew not how ere the cox did crow the fight was fought in the dark with naught for guide but the enemy's guns when the flint flashed out a spark till routed at first sound of fire the cavalry broke and fled and the hoof struck dumb where they spurned the slain in the meadow stream I saw not the handful of horsemen spur through the dusk and out of sight my soldier son at the Duke's left hand and grey that rode on his right buzzing, buzzing, buzzing my honey-making bees they left the musk and the marigolds and the scented faint sweet peas they gathered in a darkening cloud and swayed and rose to fly a blackness on the summer blue they swept across the sky gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds my soldier son alas foot saw and faint the messenger came halting through the grass the wind went by and shook the leaves the minstark shed its flower and I missed the murmuring round the hives and my bowding heart beat slower his soul we cheered with meat and wine with women's craft and bosom fine we bathed his hurts and bound them soft while west the wind played through the craft and the low sun dyed the pinks blood red and straying near the mint flower shed a wild bee wantoned o'er the bed he told me how my son at the shepherd's door kept guard in Monmouth's clothes while Monmouth donned the shepherd's frock in hope to cheat his foes a couple of troopers spied him, stand and bade him yield to the king's command and under the rabble as good as dead a price is set on thy traitor head my soldier son with secret smile held both at bay for a little while dealt them such death-blow as he fell neither was left the tale to tell with dying eyes that asked no grace they stared on him for a minute's space and felt that it was not Monmouth's face crimson though was Monmouth's cloak when the soldier dropped at their side those knaves will carry no word he said and he smiled in his pain and died two days told the messenger did we lie hid in the field of peas and rye hid in the ditch of break and sedge with the enemy's scouts down every hedge till gray was ceased and Monmouth ceased that under the fern did crouch staffed and haggard and all unshaved with a few raw peas in his pouch no music soundeth in my ears but a passing bell that tolls for gallant lords with head on block sweet heaven receive their souls and a mound unnamed in such more grass that laps my soldier son alas the bloom is shed the bees are fled Middleton luck it's done and dead end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Face on the Barroom Floor by Hugh Darcy Read for LibriVox.org by Michael Adams in Greeley, Colorado, on September 15, 2007 The Face on the Barroom Floor by Hugh Darcy It was a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there which well nigh filled Joe's Barroom on the corner of the square and as songs and witty stories came through the open door a vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor Where did it come from? someone said. The wind has blown it in. What does it want? another cried. Some whiskey, rum or gin? Here, Toby, sick'em if your stomach's equal to the work. I wouldn't touch him with a fork. He's filthy as a turk. This batonage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In Face he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place. Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd. To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. Give me a drink. That's what I want. I'm out of funds, you know. When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sue. I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. There, thanks. That's braced me nicely. God bless you one and all. Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call. Give you a song? No, I can't do that. My singing days are passed. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast. I'll tell you a funny story and a fact I promised to. Say, give me another whiskey, and I'll tell you what I'll do. But I was ever a decent man not one of you should think. But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink. Fill her up, Joe. I want to put some life into my frame. Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame. Five fingers. There, that's the scheme. And corking whiskey, too. Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you. You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sought you see before you now. As I told you once, I was a man with muscle, frame, and health, and but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth. I was a painter, not one that dobb'd on bricks and wood, but an artist, and for my age was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, for gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, tis called Chase of Fame. It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman. Now comes the funny part, with eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. Why don't you laugh, tis funny that the bag of bond you see could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me. But twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, and when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven. Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give, with a form like the Milo Venus too beautiful to live, with eyes that would beat the Coenore, and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, twas she, for there never was another half so fair. I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way. And Madeleine admired it, and much to my surprise said she'd even know the man that had such dreamy eyes. It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown my friend had stole my darling. And I was left alone. And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, the jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead. That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile. I thought you'd be amused and laughing all the while. Say, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye. Come laugh, like me, it is only babes and women that should cry. Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, and I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score, you shall see the lovely Madeleine upon the barroom floor. Another drink, and with chalk in hand the vagabond began to face that might well buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, with a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture. Dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. By William Wordsworth Read for LibriVox.org By Elizabeth Clett Five years have passed. Five summers, with the length of five long winters. And again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with a soft inland murmur. Once again do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of a more deep seclusion, and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose here under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, which at the season with their unripe fruits are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves mid-groves and copses. Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild. These pastoral farms, green to the very door, and reeds of smoke sent up in silence from among the trees. With some uncertain notice, as might seem of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, or of some hermit's cave whereby his fire the hermit sits alone, these beauteous forms, through a long absence, have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man. But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din of towns and cities, I have owed to them in hours of weariness, sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, and passing even into my pure mind, with tranquil restoration. Feelings, too, of unremembered pleasure, such perhaps as have no slight or trivial influence on the best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, to them I may have owed another gift, of aspect more sublime, that blessed mood, in which the burden of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened, that serene and blessed mood, in which the affections gently lead us on, until the breath of this corporeal frame and even the motion of our human blood almost suspended, we are laid asleep in body, and become a living soul. While with an eye made quiet by the power of harmony and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. If this be but a vain belief, yet, oh, how oft, in darkness and amid the many shapes of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir, unprofitable, and the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart, how oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, oh, Sylvan, why, thou wanderer through the woods, how often has my spirit turned to thee? And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, with many recognitions dim and faint, and somewhat of a sad perplexity, the picture of the mind revives again. While here I stand, not only with the sense of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts that in this moment there is life and food for future years. And so I dare to hope, though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills, when, like a row, I bounded or the mountains by the sides of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, whatever nature led, more like a man flying from something that he dreads than one who sought the thing he loved. For nature, then, the coarser pleasures of my boyish days and their glad animal movements all gone by, to me was all in all. I cannot paint what then I was. The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion. The tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, their colors and their forms, were then to me an appetite, a feeling and a love that had no need of a remote or charm, by thought supplied nor any interest unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, and all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy raptures. Not for this faint eye, nor mourn, nor murmur, other gifts have followed. For such loss I would believe abundant recompense. For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing often times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten at subdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky and in the mind of man, a motion and a spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods and the mountains, and of all that we behold from this green earth, of all the mighty world of eye and ear, both what they have create and what perceive. Well pleased to recognize in nature and the language of the sense the anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul of all my moral being. Nor perchance, if I were not thus taught, should I the more suffer my genial spirits to decay, for thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river, thou, my dearest friend, my dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart, and read my former pleasures and the shooting lights of thy wild eyes. O yet a little while may I behold in thee what I once was, my dear, dear sister, and this prayer I make, knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her, tis her privilege, through all the years of this hour life, to lead from joy to joy. For she can so inform the mind that is within us, so impressed with quietness and beauty, and so feed with lofty thoughts that neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life shall air prevail against us, or disturb our cheerful faith, that all which we behold is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk, and let the misty mountain winds be free to blow against thee, and in after years, when these wild ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure, when thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, thy memory be as a dwelling-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies. O then, if solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts of tender joy will thou remember me, and these my exhortations. Nor, perchance, if I should be where I no more can hear thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence, wilt thou then forget that on the banks of this delightful stream we stood together, and that I, so long a worshipper of nature, hither came unwearyed in that service, rather say with warmer love, oh, with far deeper zeal of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget that after many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, and this green-pastor landscape were to me more dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. End of poem Late, late yestrine I saw the new moon, with the old moon in her arms, and I fear, I fear my master dear, we shall have a deadly storm. Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence Well, if the bard was weather-wise who made the grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, this night, so tranquil now, will not go hence unroused by winds that ply a busier trade than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, or the dull sobbing draught that moans and rakes upon the strings of the Seolian lute, which better far were mute. For lo, the new moon winter bright, and overspread with phantom light, with swimming phantom light or spread but rimmed and circled by a silver thread, I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling the coming on of rain and squally blast, and oh, that even now the gust were swelling, and the slant night-shower driving loud and fast. Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed and sent my soul abroad, might now perhaps their won'ted impulse give, might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live. A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, a stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, which finds no natural outlet, no relief in word or sigh or tear. Oh, lady, in this wan and heartless mood, to other thoughts by yonder-throssel wood, all this long eve so balmy and serene have I've been gazing on the western sky, its peculiar tint of yellow-green, and still I gaze, and with how blank an eye, and those thin clouds above in flakes and bars that give away their motion to the stars, those stars that glide behind them or between, now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen. Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew in its own cloudless, starless lake of blue, I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are. My genial spirits fail, and what can these avail to lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, though I should gaze for ever on that green light that lingers in the west. I may not hope from outward forms to win the passion and the life whose fountains are within. Oh, lady, we receive but what we give, and in our life alone does nature live. Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud, and would we ought, behold, of higher worth than that inanimate cold world allowed to the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd? Ha! from the soul itself must issue forth a light, a glory, a fair, luminous cloud enveloping the earth, and from the soul itself must there be sent a sweet and potent voice of its own birth, of all sweet sounds, the life, and element. Oh, pure of heart, thou needs not ask of me what this strong music in the soul may be. What and wherein it doth exist, this light, this glory, this fair, luminous mist, this beautiful and beauty-making power? Joy, virtuous lady, joy that near was given, saved to the pure, and in their purest hour, life and life's effluence cloud at once and shower. Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power which wedding nature to us gives in dour. A new earth and new heaven, undreamt of by the sensual and the proud, joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud, we in ourselves rejoice, and thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, all melodies, the echoes of that voice, all colors as a fusion from that light. There was a time, when, though my path was rough, this joy within me dallied with distress, and all misfortunes were but as the stuff whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, and fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth, nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. But oh, each visitation suspends what nature gave me at my birth, my shaping spirit of imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, but to be still and patient all I can, and happily by abstruse research to steal from my own nature all the natural man. This was my sole resource, my only plan, till that which suits apart infects the whole, and now is almost grown the habit of my soul. Hence, viper thoughts that coil round my mind, reality's dark dream, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream of agony by torture lengthened out that loots and forth! Thou wind, that rave'st without, bare crag, or mountain-town, or blasted tree, or pine-grove wither woodman never clome, or lonely house long held the witch's home. Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, mad lutenist, who in this month of showers of dark brown gardens and of peeping flowers mixed devil's yule with worse than wintry song, the blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds, Thou mighty poet, even to frenzy bold, what tells thou now about? Tis of the rushing of an host and rout, with groans of trampled men with smarting wounds, at once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold, but hush! There is a pause of deepest silence, and all that noise is of a rushing crowd, with groans and tremulous shudderings, all is over. Thou tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud, a tale of less fright, and tempered with delight, as Otway's self had framed the tender lay. Tis of a little child, upon a lonesome wild, not far from home, but she had lost her way, and now moans low in bitter grief and fear, and now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep, full seldom may my friend such vigils keep. Visit her, gentle sleep, with wings of healing, and may this storm be but a mountain berth, may all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, silent as though they watched the sleeping earth. With light heart may she rise, gay fancy, cheerful eyes. Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice, to her may all things live from pole to pole, their life the eddying of her living soul. O simple spirit, guided from above, dear lady, friend devoutest of my choice, thus maist thou ever, ever more rejoice. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Kitten and Falling Leaves by William Wordsworth Read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis That way look, my infant, lo! What a pretty baby show! See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall, withered leaves One, two, and three, from the lofty elder tree. Through the calm and frosty air of this morning bright and fair, eddying round and round they sink softly, slowly. One might think, from the motions that are made, every little leaf conveyed hither tending, to this lower world descending, each invisible in mute, in his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, crouches, dretches, paws, and darts. First it won, and then its fellow, just as light and just as yellow. There are many now, now one. Only stop, and there are none. What intensness of desire in her upward eye of fire! With a tiger leap, half way now she meets the coming prey, lets it go as fast, and then has it in her power again. Now she works with three or four, like an Indian conjurer, quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye of a thousand standards by, clapping hands with shout and stare, what would little tabby care for the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, over wealthy in the treasure of her own exceeding pleasure. Tis a pretty baby treat, nor I deem for me unmeat. Here, for neither babe nor me, other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, that was stir of feet and wings, in the sun or under shade, upon bow or grassy blade, and with busy revelings, chirp and song and murmurings, made this orchards narrow space, and this veil so blith a place, multitudes are swept away never more to breathe the day, some are sleeping, some in bands traveled into distant lands, others slunk to more and wood, far from human neighborhood, and among the kinds that keep with us closer fellowship, with us openly abide, all have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy sprite, blue cap with his colors bright, who is blessed as bird could be feeding in the apple tree? Made such wanton spoil and rout turning blossoms inside out, hung, head pointing towards the ground, fluttered, perched, into a round bound himself and then unbound. Lithus, goddess Tarliquan, prettiest tumbler ever seen, light of heart and light of limb, what has now become of him? Lambs that through the mountains went frisking, bleeding merriment, when the year was in its prime, they are sobered by this time. If you look to veil or hill, if you listen, all is still, save a little neighboring rill that from out the rocky ground strikes a solitary sound. Vanely glitter hill and plain, and the air is calm in vain. Vanely morning spreads the lure of a sky serene and pure. Creature none can she decoy into open sign of joy. Is it that they have a fear of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be sweeter even than gaiety? Yet, would air enjoyments dwell in the impenable cell of the silent heart which nature furnishes to every creature? What so air we feel and know to sedate for outward show such a light of gladness breaks pretty kitten from thy flakes spreads with such a living grace or my little Dora's face? Yes, the sight so stirs and charms thee, baby, laughing in my arms that almost I could repine that your transports are not mine, that I do not wholly fare even as ye do, thoughtless pair. And I will have my careless season, spite of melancholy reason, will walk through life in such a way that when time brings on decay now and then I may possess hours of perfect gladsomeness, pleased by any random toy, by a kitten's busy joy, or an infant's laughing eye sharing in the ecstasy. I would fare like that or this, find my wisdom in my bliss, keep the sprightly soul awake and have faculties to take even from things by sorrow wrought, matter for a jokin' thought, spite of care and spite of grief, to gamble with life's falling leaf. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson Read for LibriVox.org by Adam Ringeth The Hound of Heaven I fled him down the nights and down the days. I fled him down the arches of the years. I fled him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind, and in the midst of tears I hid from him an underrunning laughter. Up visted hopes I sped and shot precipitated a downed titanic glooms of chasmed fears from those strong feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase, an unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy, they beat, and a voice beat, more instant than the feet. All things betray thee, who betrayest me. I pleaded, outlaw-wise, by many a hearted casement, curtain-dred, trellised with intertwining charities. For, though I knew his love who followed, yet was I sore a dread, lest having him I must have not beside. But, if one little casement parted wide, the gust of his approach would clash it too. Fear wist not to evade, as love wist to pursue. Across the margin of the world I fled, and troubled the gold gateways of the stars smiting for shelter on their clangid bars, fretted to dulcet jars and silver and chatter the pale ports of the moon. I said to dawn, be sudden, to eave, be soon, with thy young sky-blossoms heat me over from this tremendous lover. Float thy vague veil about me, lest he see. I tempted all his servitors, but to find my own betrayal in their constancy. In faith to him, their fickleness to me, their traitor's trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things, for swiftness did I sue, clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, the long savannas of the blue, or whether, thunder-driven, they clanked his chariot thwart a heaven, plashy with flying lightnings round the spurns of their feet. Fear wist not to evade, as love wist to pursue. Still, with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy, came on the following feet and a voice above their beat. Not shelters thee who wilt not shelter me. I sought no more that after which I strayed in face of man or maid. But still, within the little children's eyes seemed something, something that replies, they at least are for me, surely for me. I turned me to them very wistfully. But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fare with dawning answers there, their angel plucked them from me by the hair. Come then, ye other children, natures, share with me, said I, your delicate fellowship. Let me greet you lip to lip, let me twine with you caresses, wantoning with our lady mother's vagrant tresses, banquening with her in her wind-walled palace underneath her azure dais, quaffing as your taintless way is from a chalice loosened weeping out of the day's spring. So it was done. I, in their delicate fellowship was one, drew the bolt of nature's secrecies. I knew all the swift importings on the willful face of skies. I knew how the clouds arise, spewment of the wild sea snortings. All that's borne or dies rose and drooped with, made the shapers of mine own moods, or waleful, or divine, with them joyed and was bereven. I was heavy with the even when she lit her glimmering tapers round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather. Heaven and I wept together, and its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine. Against the red throb of its sunset heart I laid my own to beat and share commingling heat. But not by that, by that was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on heaven's great cheek. For ah, we know not what each other says these things and I. In sound I speak. Their sound is but their stir. They speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drought. Let her, if she would owe me, drop yon blue bosom veil of sky and show me the breasts of her tenderness. Never did any milk of hers once bless my thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase with unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, a majestic instancy. And past those noisy feet a voice comes yet more fleet. Low, not contensed thee, who contensed not me. Naked, I wait thy love's uplifted stroke. My harness piece by piece thou hast hewn from me and spitted me to my knee. I am defenseless utterly. I slept, me thinks, and woke. And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash, lusty head of my young powers I shook the pillaring hours and pulled my life upon me. Grimed with smears I stand amid the dust of the mounded years. My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, have puffed and burst as sun starts on a stream. Yay! Pheleth now even dream the dreamer and the lute the ludenest. Even the linked fantasies in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist are yielding. Chords of all too weak a count for earth with heavy griefs so overplust. Ah! Is thy love indeed a weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah, must! Design are infinite. Ah! Must thou char the wood ere thou canst limb with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower in the dust. And now my heart is as a broken fount wherein tear-dripping stagnate spilt down ever from the dank thoughts that shiver upon the cyphal branches of my mind. Such is! What is to be? The pulp's so bitter. How shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what time in mists confounds. Yet ever an anon a trumpet sounds from the hid battlements of eternity. Those shaken mists, a space unsettle, then round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen enwound with glooming robes perpurial Cyprus crowned. His name I know, and what his trumpet saith, whether man's heart or life it be which yields thee harvest, must thy harvest fields be dung'd with rotten death. Now of that long pursuit comes at hand the brute, that voice is round me like a bursting sea, and is thy earth so marred, shattered in shard on shard. Lo, all things fly thee, for thou flyest me. Strange, piteous, futile thing, wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I make much of not, he said. And human love needs human meriting. How hast thou merited? Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot. Alack, thou knowest not how little worthy of any love thou art. Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee? Save me. Save only me. All which I took from thee, I did but take not for thy harms, but just that thou might seek it in my arms. All which thy child's mistake fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home. Rise, clasp my hand, and come, haltz by me that foffa, is my gloom. After all, shade of his hand outstretched caressingly? Arthondest, blindest, weakest, I am he whom thou seekest. Thou dravest love from thee who dravest me. End of the Hound of Heaven, by Adam Ringeth. This recording is in the public domain. Wild Grapes by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. I was born, I suppose, like any one, and grew to be a little boyish girl my brother could not always leave at home. But that beginning was wiped out in fear the day I swung suspended with the grapes, and was come after like irritancy and brought down safely from the upper regions. And the life I live now's an extra life I can waste as I please on whom I please. So if you see me celebrate two birthdays and give myself out of two different ages, one of them five years younger than I look, one day my brother led me to a glade where a white birch he knew of stood alone, wearing a thin headdress of pointed leaves and heavy on her heavy hair behind against her neck and ornament of grapes. Grapes. I knew grapes from having seen them last year. One bunch of them and there began to be bunches all around me growing in white birches, the way they grew round leaf the luckiest German. Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though, as the moon used to seem when I was younger and only freely to be had for climbing. My brother did the climbing, and at first threw me down grapes to miss and scatter and have to hunt for in sweet fern and hard-hack, which gave him some time to himself to eat. But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed. So then, to make me wholly self-supporting, he climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth and put it in my hands to pick my own grapes. Here, take a treetop. I'll get down another. Hold on with all your might when I let go. I said I had the tree. It wasn't true. The opposite was true. The tree had me. The minute it was left with me alone, it caught me up as if I were the fish, and it the fish-pole. So I was translated to loud cries from my brother of, Let go! Don't you know anything, you girl? Let go! But I, with something of the baby grip acquired ancestrally in just such trees when wilder mothers than our wildest now hung babies out on branches by the hands to dry, or wash, or tan. I don't know which. You'll have to ask an evolutionist. I held on uncomplainingly for life. My brother tried to make me laugh to help me. What are you doing up there in those grapes? Don't be afraid. A few of them won't hurt you. I mean, they won't pick you if you don't them. Much danger of my picking anything. By that time I was pretty well reduced to a philosophy of hang and let hang. Now you know how it feels, my brother said, to be a bunch of fox grapes as they call them, that when it thinks it has escaped the fox by growing where it shouldn't, on a birch, where the fox wouldn't think to look for it, and if he looked and found it couldn't reach it, just then come you and I to gather it. Only you have the advantage of the grapes in one way. You have more stem to cling by, and promise more resistance to the picker. One by one I lost off my hat and shoes, and still I clung. I let my head fall back and shut my eyes against the sun, my ears against my brother's nonsense. Drop, he said, I'll catch you in my arms. It isn't far. Stated in lengths of him it might not be. Drop or I'll shake the tree and shake you down. Grim silence on my part as I sank lower, my small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings. Why if she isn't serious about it? Hold tight a while till I think what to do. I'll bend the tree down and let you down by it. I don't know much about the letting down, but once I felt ground with my stalking feet and the world came revolving back to me, you know I looked long at my curled up fingers before I straightened them and brushed the bark off. My brother said, Don't you weigh anything? Try to weigh something next time so you won't be run off with by birch trees into space. It wasn't my not weighing anything so much as my not knowing anything. My brother had been nearer right before. I had not taken the first step at knowledge. I had not learned to let go with the hands as still I have not learned to with the heart and have no wish to with the heart nor need that I can see. The mind is not the heart. I may yet live as I know others live to wish in vain to let go with the mind of cares at night to sleep, but nothing tells me that I need learn to let go with the heart. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Singing Man by Josephine Preston Peabody Read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley The Singing Man Part 1 He sang above the vineyards of the world and after him the vines with woven hands clambered and clung and everywhere unfurled, triumphing green above the barren lands. Till high as gardens grow he climbed, he stood sun-crowned with life and strength and singing toil and looked upon his work and it was good the corn, the wine, the oil. He sang above the noon the topmost cleft that grudged him footing on the mountain-scars he planted and disbared not till he left his vines soft-breathing to the host of stars. He wrought, he tilled and even as he sang the creatures of his planting laughed to scorn the ancient threat of deserts where there sprang the wine, the oil, the corn. He sang not for abundance. Overlords took of his tilth yet was there still to reap the portion of his labour dear rewards of sunlit day and bread and human sleep. He sang for strength, for glory of the light he dreamed above the furrows they are mine when all he wrought stood fair before his sight with corn and oil and wine. Truly the light is sweet, yea and a pleasant thing it is to see the sun and that a man should eat his bread that he hath won so it is sung and said that he should take and keep after his labouring the portion of his labour in his bread his bread that he hath won, yea and in quiet sleep when all is done. He sang above the burden and the heat above all seasons with their fitful grace above the chance and change that led his feet to this last ambush of the marketplace enough for him they said and still they say a crust with air to breathe and sun to shine he asks no more before they took away the corn, the oil, the wine he sang no more he sings now anywhere light was enough before he was undone they knew it well who took away the air who took away the sun who took to serve their soul devouring greed himself his breath his bread the goat of toil who haven't hold before the eyes of need the corn, the wine, the oil Truly one thing is sweet of things beneath the sun this that a man should earn his bread and eat rejoicing in his work which he hath done what shall be sung or said of desolate deceit when others take his bread his and his children's bread and the labourer hath none this for his portion now of all that he hath done he earns and others eat he starves they sit at meet who have taken away the sun part two seek for him now that singing man look for him look for him in the mills in the mines where the very daylight pines he who once did walk the hills you shall find him if you scan shapes all unbefitting man bodies warped and faces dim in the mines in the mills where the ceaseless thunder fills spaces of the human brain till all thought is turned to pain where the skull of wheel on wheel grinding him who is their tool makes the shattered senses real to the numbness of the fool perished thought and halting tongue once it spoke once it sung lived to hunger dead to song only heart beats loud with wrong hammer on how long how long how long search for him search for him where the crazy atoms swim up the fiery furnace blast you shall find him at the last he whose forehead braved the sun wrecked and tortured and undone where no breath across the heat whispers him that life was sweet but the sparkles mock and flare scattering up the crooked air blackened with that bitter murk would God know his handy work thought is not for such as he naught but strength and misery since for just the bite and sup life must needs be swallowed up only reeling up the sky hurtling flames that hurry by gasp and flare with why why why why the human mind of him shrinks and falters and is dim when he tries to make it out what the torture is about why he breathes a fugitive whom the world forbids to live why he earned for his abode the reputation of the toad why his fevered day by day will not serve to drive away horror that must always haunt want want nightmare shot with waking pangs tightening coil and certain fangs close and closer always nigh why why why he labours under ban that denies him for a man why his utmost drop of blood buys for him no human good why his utmost urge of strength only lets them starve at length will not let him starve alone he must watch and see his own fade and fail and starve and die why why heartbeats in a hammering song heavy as an ox may plod goaded, faint with wrong cry unto some ghost of God how long, how long, how long part three seek him yet, search for him you shall find him spent and grim in the prisons where we pen these unsightly shards of men sheltered fast, housed at length clothed and fed, no matter how where the household as a ghast measure in his broken strength naught but power for evil now beast of burden drudgeries could not earn him what was his he who heard the world applaud glories seized by force and fraud he must break, he must take both for hate and hunger's sake he must seize by fraud and force he must strike without remorse seize he might, but never keep strike his once, behold him here human life we buy so cheap who should know we held it dear no denial, no defence from a brain bereft of scents any more than penitence but the heartbeats now that plod goaded, goaded, dumb with wrong ask not even a ghost of God how long when the sea gives up its dead prison caverns yield instead this rejected and despised this the soiled and sacrificed without form or comeliness shamed for us that did transgress bruised for our iniquities with the stripes that are all his face that wreckage you who can it was once the singing man Part 4 must it be, must we then render back to God again this his broken work this thing for his man that once did sing will not all our wonders do gifts we stored the ages through trusting that he had forgot gifts the Lord required not would the all but human serve monsters made of stone and nerve towers to threaten and defy curse or blessing of the sky shafts that blot the stars with smoke lightning's harnessed under yoke see things, air things wrought with steel that may smite and fly and feel oceans calling each to each hostile hearts with kindred speech every work that titans can every marvel save a man who might rule without a sword is a man more precious Lord can it be, must we then render back to the again million million wasted men men of flickering human breath only made for life and death ah but see the sovereign few highly favoured that remain these the glorious residue of the cherished race of Cain these are magnates of the age high above the human wage who have numbered and possessed all the portion of the rest what are all despairs and shames what the mean forgotten names of the thousand more or less for one surfeit of success for those dullest lives we spent take these few magnificent for that host of blotted ones take these glittering central suns few but how their lustre thrives on a million broken lives splendid over dark and doubt for a million souls gone out these the holders of our horde wilt thou not accept them Lord? Part 5 O in the wakening thunders of the heart the small lost Eden troubled through the night sounds there not now foreboded and apart some voice and sword of light some voice and portent of a dawn to break searching like God the ruinous human shard of that lost brother man himself did make and man himself hath marred it sounds and may the anguish of that birth sees on the world and may all shelters fail till we behold new heaven and new earth through the rent temple veil when the high tides that threaten near and far to sweep away our guilt before the sky flooding the waste of this dishonoured star cleanse and overwhelm and cry cry from the deep of world accusing waves with longing more than all since light began above the nations underneath the graves is back the singing man End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Mary Gloucester by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox by Andy Minter I've paid for your sickest fancies I've humoured your crackedest whim Dick is your daddy dying you've got to listen to him good for a fortnight am I the doctor told you he lied I shall go under my morning and put that nurse outside never seen death yet Dickie well now's your time to learn and you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn not counting the line and the foundry the yards and the village too I've made myself and a million from damn if I made you master at two and twenty and married at twenty-three ten thousand men on the payroll and forty freighters at sea fifty years between them and every year of it fight and now I'm Sir Anthony Gloucester dying about a night for I lunched with his Royal Highness what was it the papers had not least of our merchant princes Dickie that's me your dad I didn't begin with askings I took my job and I stuck I took the chances they wouldn't and now they're calling it luck Lord what boats I've handled rotten and leaky and old ran them or opened a bilge cock precisely as I was told grub that had bind you crazy and cruise that had turned you grey and the big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way the others they doesn't do it they said they value their life they've served me since as skippers I went and I took my wife over the world I drove him married at twenty-three and your mother saving the money and making a man of me I was content to be master but she said there was better behind she took the chances I wouldn't and I followed your mother blind she egged me to borrow the money and she helped me to clear the loan when we bought half shares in the cheapen and oystered a flag of our own patching and culling on credit and living the Lord knew how we started the red ox freighters we've eight and thirty now those were the days of the clippers and the freighters were clipper freighters and we knew we were making our fortune but she died in Macassus Straits by the little pattern oysters as you come to the Union Bank and we dropped her in fourteen feather I pricked it off where she sank owners we were full owners and the boat was christened for her and she died in the Mary Gloucester my heart how young we were so I went on a spree round Java well now I ran her ashore but your mother came and warned me and I wouldn't lick her no more strict I stuck to me business afraid to stop or I'd think saving the money she warned me and letting the other men drink and I met McCulloch in London I'd saved five hundred then and between us we started the foundry three forges and twenty men cheap repairs for the cheapen it paid and the business grew for I'd bought me a steam lathe patent and that was a gold mine too cheap at a building and buy them I said but McCulloch he shied and we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde and the lines were all beginning and we all of us started fair building our engines like houses and staying the boiler square but McCulloch he wanted cabins with marble and maple and all and Brussels and Utrecht velvet and baths and a social hall and pipes for closets all over and cutting the frames too light but McCulloch he died in the sixties and well I'm dying tonight I knew I knew what was coming when we bid on the byfleets keel they piddled and piffled with iron I'd given my orders for steel steel and the first expansions it paid I tell you it paid when we came with our nine knot freighters and collared the long run trade and they asked me how I did it and I gave them the scripture text you keep your light so shining a little in front of the next they copied all they could follow but they couldn't copy my mind and I left them sweating and stealing a year and a half behind then came the armor contracts but that was McCulloch's side he was always best in the foundry but better perhaps he died I went through his private papers the notes was plain as a print now I'm no fool to finish if a man will give me a hint I remember his widow was angry so I saw what his drawings meant and I started the six inch rollers and it paid me sixty percent sixty percent with failures and more than twice we could do and a quarter million to credit but I saved it all for you I thought it doesn't matter you seem to favor your mar be a nearer forty than thirty and I know the kind you are Arrer and Trinity College I ought to have sent you to sea but I stood you in education and what have you done for me the things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give and the things I knew was rotten you set as the way to live be a muddle with books and pictures and china and etchings and pans and your rooms at college was beastly more like a horse than a man's until you married that thin flanked woman as white and stale as a bone and she gave you your social nonsense but where's that kid of your own I've seen your carriages blocking the half of the Cromwell Road but never the doctors broomed to help the mrs unload so there isn't even a grandchild and the Gloucester family's done not like your mother she isn't she carried her freight each run died the poor little beggars at sea she had them they died only you and you stood it you haven't stood much beside weak and liar and idle and mean as a collier's wealth nosing for scraps in the galley no help, my son was no help so he gets three hundred thousand in trust and the interest paid I wouldn't give it you dickie you see I made it in trade you're saved from soil in your fingers and if you have no child it all comes back to the business won't your wife be wild calls and calls in her carriage or anchor you up to her eye daddy dear daddy's dying and doing her best to cry grateful oh yes I'm grateful to keep her away from here your mother had never stood her and anyhow women are queer there's women on sale I've married a second time not quite but give poor Aggie a hundred and tell her your lawyers will fight she was the best of the boiling you'll meet her before it ends I'm in for a round with the mother I'll leave you to settle my friends for a man he must go with a woman which women don't understand or the sort they say they can see it if they aren't the marrying brand but I wanted to speak to your mother that's Lady Gloucester still I'm going to up and see her without it's hurt in the wheel here take your hand of the bell pool five thousand's waiting for you if you'll only listen a minute and do as I bid you do try to prove me crazy and if you bungle they can and if you bungle they can and if you bungle they can and if you bungle they can I've only you to trust to oh god why ain't it a man there's some waste money on marbles the same as McCulloch tried marbles and morseliams but I call that sinful pride there's some ship bodies for burial we've carried them sold and unpacked down in their wills they wrote it and nobody called them cracked for me I have too much money and people might all my fault it comes to open for grandsons and find that woking fault I'm sick of the old damn business I'm going back where I came Dick you're the son of my body and you'll take charge of the same I want to lie by your mother ten thousand miles away and they'll want to send me to woking and that's where you learn your pay I've thought it out on the quiets the same as it ought to be done quiet and decent and proper and here's your orders my son you know the line you don't know you write the board and tell your father's death has upset you and you're going to cruise for a spell and you'd like the Mary Gloucester I've held her ready for this they'll put her in work in order and you'll take her out as she is yes it was money and money and you'll take her out as she is yes it was money idle when I patched her and laid her aside then God I can pay for me fancies a boat where your mother died by the little pattern Osters as you come to a union bank we dropped her I think I told you and I pricked it off where she sank tiny she looked on the grating that oily trickly sea 118 east remember and south just three easy bearings to carry three south three to the dot but I gave McAndrew a copy in case of dying or not so you'll write to McAndrew he's chief of the Maori nine they'll give him leave if you ask him and say it's business of mine I built three boats for the Maori's and very well pleased they were and I have known Max since the fifties and Mc knew me and her after the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep against the time you'd claim it committing your dad to the deep for you were the son of my body and Mc was my oldest friend I've never asked him to dinner but he'll see it out to the end stiff-necked Glasgow beggar I heard he's prayed for my soul but he couldn't lie if you paid him and he'd starve before he stole he'll take the Mary and ballast you'll find her a lively ship and you'll take Sir Anthony Gloucester that goes on his wedding trip lashed in our old debt cabin with all three portholes wide the kicker the screw beneath him and the round blue seas outside Sir Anthony Gloucester's carriage our house flag our house flag flying free ten thousand men on the payroll and forty freighters at sea he made himself and a million that this world is a fleeting show and he'll go to the wife of his bosom the same as he ought to go by the heel of the pattern Osters there isn't a chance to mistake and Mc will pay the money as soon as the bubbles break five thousand for six weeks cruising the staunchest freighter afloat and Mc he'll give you your bonus the minute I'm out of the boat he'll take you round to Macassar and you'll come back alone he knows what I want to the Mary I'll do what I please with my own your mother had called you wasteful but I have seven and thirty more I'll come in my private carriage and bid it wait at the door for my son he was never a credit he muddled with books and art and he lived on Sir Antony's money and he broke Sir Antony's art there isn't even a grandchild and a Gloucester family's done the only one you left me ah mother the only one Ara and Trinity College me slaving early and late and he thinks I'm dying crazy and you're in Macassar straight flesh of my flesh my dearie for ever and ever our men that first stroke come from warning I ought to have gone to your men but cheap prepares for cheap and the doctors said I'd do Mary why didn't you warn me I always eated to you except I know about women but you were a spirit now and wife they was only women and I was a man that's how and a man he must go with a woman as you could not understand well I never talked to him secret I paid him out of hand thank God I can pay for my fancies now what's five thousand to me for a birth off the pattern ostas in Avon where I would be I believe in the resurrection if I read my Bible plain but I wouldn't trust him at Woking we're safe now I'm not a man I'm not a man I wouldn't trust him at Woking we're safer at sea again the heart it shall go with the treasure go down to the sea in ships I'm sick of the hired women I'll kiss my girl on her lips I'll be content with my fountain I'll drink from my own well and the wife of my youth shall charm me and the rest can go to hell Dickie he will that's certain I'll lie in our standing bed and Mack will take her in ballast and she trims best by the head down by the head and sinking her fires are drawn and cold and the water splashing all over on the skin of the empty hole churning and choking and chuckling quiet and scurry and dark fall to her lower hatches and rise in steady arc that was the after bulkhead she flooded from stem to stern never seen death yet Dickie well now it's time to learn end of poem The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe read for LibriVox.org by Julie Coker once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgetfulness I'm not a man a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore while I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door his some visitor I muttered tapping at my chamber door only this and nothing more ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor eagerly I wished the morrow vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore nameless here for evermore and the silken sad uncertain wrestling of each purple curtain thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before so that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating tis some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door that it is and nothing more presently my soul grew stronger hesitating then no longer surce that I or madam truly your forgiveness I implore but the fact is I was napping so gently you came rapping and so faintly you came tapping tapping at my chamber door that I scarce was sure I heard you here I opened wide the door darkness there and nothing more deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering fearing doubting dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before but the silence was unbroken the stillness gave no token and the only word there spoken was the whispered word Lenore this I whispered and echo murmured back the word Lenore merely this and nothing more back into the chamber turning all my soul within me burning soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before surely said I surely that is something at my window lattice let me see then what there at is and this mystery explore let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore tis the wind and nothing more open here I flung the shutter then with many a flirt and flutter in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore not the least obeisance made he not an instant stopped or stave he with myen of lord and lady perched above my chamber door perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door perched and sat and nothing more then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance at war though their crest be shorn and shaven thou I said art shirt no craven ghastly grim an ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore quote the raven never more much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door bird or beast upon the sculpture to bust above his chamber door with such a name as never more but the raven sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour nothing further than he uttered not a feather than he fluttered till I scarcely more than muttered other friends have known before on the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before then the bird said never more startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken doubtless at I what it utters is its only stock in store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his song was won by the raven the raven said never more faster till his song was won burden bore till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden bore of never never more but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore what this grim ungainly ghastly gaunt an ominous bird of yore meant in croaking never more this I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core this and more I sat divining with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er she shall press ah never more then me thought the air grew denser perfumed from an unseen censor swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor wretch I cried thy god hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore quaff oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore quoth the raven never more prophets said I thing of evil prophets still of bird or devil whether tempter sent or whether tempest hostity here ashore desolate yet all indaunted on this desert land enchanted on this home by horror haunted tell me truly I implore is there is there balm and gilead tell me tell me I implore quoth the raven never more prophets said I thing of evil prophets still of bird or devil by that heaven that bends above us by that god we both adore tell this soul with sorrow laden within the distant Aden it shall clasp a saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore quoth the raven never more be that word our sign of parting bird or fiend I shrieked of starting get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken leave my loneliness unbroken quit the bust above my door take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door quoth the raven never more and the raven never flitting still is sitting still is sitting on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming and the lamp light or him streaming throws his shadow on the floor and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted never more end of poem this recording is in the public domain this recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson it little prophets that an idle king by this still hearth among these barren crags matched with an aged wife I meet and dole unequal laws unto a sabbath unto a sabbath unto a sabbath unto a sabbath unto a sabbath I meet and dole unequal laws unto a sabbath reass that horde and sleep and feed and know not me I cannot rest from travel I will drink life to the Lees All times I have enjoyed greatly have suffered greatly both with those that love me and alone on shore and when through scutting drifts the rain alto not около the gymon vetch the dim 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 honoured of them all, and drunk delight of battle with my peers, far 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 unburnished, not to shine in use, as though to breathe were life. Life piled on life were all too 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 vile it were for some three sons to store and hoard myself, and this gray spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, my known Telemachus, to whom I leave the scepter and the isle. Well loved of me, discerning to fulfill this labour by slow prudence to make mild, a rugged people, and through soft degrees subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere of common duties, decent not to fail in offices of tenderness, and pay meat adoration to my household gods when I am gone. He works his work, I mine. Here lies the port, the vessel-puffser's sail. There gloom the dark broad seas, my mariners, souls that have toiled and wrought and 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 hath yet his honour and his toil. Death closes all. But something ere the 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 wanes, the slow moon climbs, the deep moans round with many voices. Some, my friends, tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows, for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the western stars until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down. It may be that we shall touch the happy isles and see the great Achilles whom we knew. So much is taken, much abides, and though we are not now, that strength which in old days moved to earth and heaven, that which we are, we are. One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time in fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. End of Poe, this recording is in the public domain. The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Drake Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly nappin', suddenly there came a tappin' as of some one gently wrappin', wrappin' at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, tappin' at my chamber door. Only this, and nothin' more. Eh, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and the separate dyin' ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books Sir Cease of Sorrow. Sorrow fought a lost Lenore, but a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, aimless here, for evermore, and the silken, sad, uncertain rustlin' of each pupil-coitin trilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeatin' that is some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothin' more. Presently my heart grew stronger, hesitatin' then no longer. Sir, said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was nappin', and so gently you came wrappin' and so faintly you came tappin', tappin' at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I hoid you. Here I opened wide the door, darkness there, and nothin' more. Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wonderin', fearing, doubtin', dreamin' dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only void there spoken was the whispered void, Lenore. Thus I whispered, and an echo moimed back the void, Lenore. Merely this, and nothin' more. Back into the chamber toinin' all my soul within me boynin'. Soon again I hoid a tappin', somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is somethin' at my window lattice. Let me see then, what there at is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. Tis the wind, and nothin' more. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a floutin' flutter, and there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he, but, with mean of lord or lady, poached above my chamber door, poached upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door, poached, and sat, and nothin' more. Then dis ebony boy'd beguiling my sad fancy into smilin' by the grave and stern the quorum of the countenance it wore. Would I crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, art shorn no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wanderin' from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's plutonian shore. Quote the raven, never more. Such I marveled dis ungainly foul, to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little revelancy bore, for we cannot help agreeing that no livin' human being ever yet was blessed with seein' bird above his chamber door. Bird or beast above the sculpture bust above his chamber door, with such a name as never more. But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one void, as if his soul and that one void did he outpour. Nuttin' floided then he uttered, not a feather then he flooded, till I scarcely more than muttered. What if friends have flown before? On a morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the void said, never more, startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken. Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs won burden bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy-boyden bore of, never, never more. But the raven, still beguilein' all my sad soul into smilin', straight I wheeled a cushion seat in front of void and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinkin' I betook myself to linkin' fancy into fancy, thinkin' what this ominous void of yore, what this grim ungainly gaunt and ominous void of yore, meant in croken, never more. Thus I sat engaged in gessin' but no syllable expressin' to the fowl, whose fiery eyes now buoyed into my bosom's core. This and more, I sat divinin' with my head at ease reclinin' on the cushion's velvet violet linin' that the lamplight gloated oar. But whose velvet violet linin' with the lamplight gloatin' oar she shall press, ah, never more. Then me taught the air-grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor swung by angels, whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch! I cried, thy God at Lenthe, by these angels he had sent thee respite, respite and empathy from the memories of Lenore. Quaff! O quaff this kind of penthe, and forget this lost Lenore! quote the raven, never more. Desolate said I, thing of evil, profit still, if void or devil, whether tempter's scent or whether tempers toss thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home by horror haunted. Tell me truly, I implore. Is there? Is there bomb and gilead? Tell me. Tell me, I implore. Quote the raven, never more. Profit said I, thing of evil, profit still, if void or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant aiden, it shall clasp a saintly maiden whom the angels named Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore. Quote the raven, never more. Be that void, I'll sign a pardon, bird or fiend. I shrieked up starting, get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust upon my door, take thy beak from up my heart and take thy form from off my door. Quote the raven, never more. And the raven, never flittin', still is sittin', still is sittin' on the pallid bust of palace, just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a daemons that is dreamin' and the lamplight or him streamin' throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floatin' on the floor shall be lifted, never more. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain.