 A summer's afternoon, by Benjamin King, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Clare. To us the clothes of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam and the teakettle sung, with its load of steam. The old clock ticked the tongue on the wall and struck it the same old cuckoo-call. Then oft I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then all tongued, piped in a jay, I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shadows of twilight are creeping on, with the eerie hum of the small pea-weas, over there in the cedar trees. And the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam had told me the cows were coming home, and the sighing breeze came o'er the croft, but, ah, comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a Lydian lute, or the echoing strains of a fairies flute. It bids me awaken, and live, and rejoice, which is only the sound of Elvira's voice, like an angel's whisper, it comes to me, Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. Only it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. A Summer Afternoon by Benjamin King Red for LibriVox.org by Esther Twas the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away, the sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the teacaddle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and struck with the same old cuckoo call. Then off I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then altar once piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shatters of twilight are creeping on, with the eerie hum of the small pee-wees. Over there, in the cedar trees, and the tinkle of bells, in the marshy loam, attold me the cows were coming home. And the sighing breeze came o'er the craft, but, ah, comes a melody far more soft. Then the troubled notes of a Lydian lute, or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute, it bids me awaken, and live, and rejoice, tis only the sound of Elvira's voice, like an angel's whisper, it comes to me. Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A summer's afternoon by Benjamin King, read for LibraVox.org by Gemma Bloth. Twas the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had dart away, the sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the decadal sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked, that hung on the wall, and struck at the same old cuckoo call. Then out I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then all to aunt piped in a jay. I just saw her with my senses gone, and the shadows of twilight are creeping on, with the eerie hum of the small pewees over there in the cedar trees. And the tingle of bells and the margely loam that told me the cows were coming home. And the sigh and breeze came o'er the craft, but all comes a melody far more soft. Then the troubled notes of the lydian lute were the echoing strains of a fairies flute. It bids me awaken and live and rejoice, tis only the sound of a various force. Like an angel's whisper it comes to me, wake up your fool and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring and it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King. Head for LibriVax.org by John Scott Jones, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, August 3, 2007. To us the clothes of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam and the teak-head'll sung, with its load of steam. The old clock ticked, that hung on the wall and struck at the same old cuckoo-call. And off I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then altar once piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shatters of twilight creeped in on with the eerie hum of the small pee-wees over there in the cedar trees. And the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam had told me the cows were coming home, and the sighing breeze came over the croft. But ah! comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a Lydian lute or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken, and live, and rejoice, tis only the sound of Elvirey's voice. Like an angel's whisper it comes to me. Who, wake up, you fool, and come to tea! And it ain't in the spring or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King Read for Librebox.org by Jeanette It was the close of a summer's day. The sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering glee, and the teak-headle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and struck if the same old cuckoo called. Then oft I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. An alter-aunt piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shatters of twilight are creeping on. With the eerie hum of the small pewees over there in the cedar trees. And the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam that told me the cows were coming home. And the scion breeze came o'er the craft, but ah, comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a Lydian root, or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken and live and rejoice, to only the sound of Alvary's voice. Like an angel's whisper it comes to me, wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. A summer's afternoon by Benjamin King, read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. It was the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away, the sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the teakettle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall and struck at the same old cuckoo call. When off'd I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then all taronked piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shaders of twilight are creeping on. With the eerie hum of the small pee-wees over there in the cedar trees, and the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam I told me the cows were coming home, and the scion breeze came o'er the craft. And ah comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a Lydian lute, or the echoed strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken, and live, and rejoice. It is only the sound of Alviree's voice, like an angel's whisper it comes to me. Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King Read for Libervox.org by Leanne Howlett Twas the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the teakettle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and struck at the same old cuckoo call. Then off I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then altar-onked piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shatters of twilight a-creepin' on, with the eerie hum of the small pee-wees over there in the cedar trees, and the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam attold me the cows were coming home. And the sighing breeze camore the croft, but ah comes a melody far more soft. And the troubled notes of a Lydian lute, or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken, and live and rejoice, till only the sound of Elviree's voice, like an angel's whisper it comes to me. Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King, read for lubervox.org by Lucy Bergoin. Twas the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the tea kettle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and strucketh the same old cuckoo call. Then oft I could hear the mournful bay, of some watchdog far away. Then all to once piped in a jay. I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shadows of twilight are creeping on, With the eerie hum of the small pea-weeds, over there in the cedar trees. And the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam, ad-told mid-to-cows were coming home. And the sighing breeze came all the croft, that, ah, comes melody far more soft. Then the troubled notes of a ludian lute, or the echoing strains of a theory's flute. It bids me awaken, and live and rejoice, tis only the sound of a vire's voice. Like an angel's whisper, it comes to me, wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day. That's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King, read for LibriVox.org by Mary Anderson. Twas the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the tea-kettle sung with its load of steam. The old clock tick that hung on the wall, and struck if the same old cuckoo call. And oft I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then altar once piped in a jay, I just sat there with my senses gone, and the shatters of twilight a-creepin' on. With the eerie hum of the small pee-wees, over there in the cedar trees, and the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam, Et told me the cows were coming home. And the sighing breeze came o'er the croft, but ah comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a lydian lute, or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken and live in rejoice, to only the sound of Elviree's voice. Like an angel's whisper it comes to me, Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. And it ain't in the spring, or it ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day, that's all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A summer's afternoon by Benjamin King, read for LibriVox.org by Podboxer. It was the close of a summer's day, the sound of the flail had died away. The sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the tea-ketles sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and struck ith the same old cuckoo-call. Then oft I could hear the mournful bay of some watchdog far away. Then alter oct piped in a jay. I just sat there, with my senses gone, and the shadows of a twilight creeping on, with the eerie hum of the small pee-wees over there in the sedder-trees. And the tinkerer bells in the marshy loam, attold me the cows were coming home, and the sighing-briezer came over the croft, but, ah, comes a melody far more soft than the troubled notes of a lydean lute, or the echoing strains of a fairy's flute. It bids me awaken, and live in rejoice, tis only the sound of Elvary's voice. Like an angel's whisper, it comes to me, wake up, and it ain't in the spring, er, ain't in the fall, but the close of a summer's day, that's all. End of A Summer's Afternoon. This recording is in the public domain. A Summer's Afternoon by Benjamin King, read for LibriVox.org by Riccardo. Twas the close of a summer's day. The sound of the flade had died away, the sun was shedding a lingering gleam, and the tea-cattle sung with its load of steam. The old clock ticked that hung on the wall, and strucketh the same old cuckoo call. Then after could hear the mournful bay of some watched dog far away, then all tall once piped in a jay. I just sat there my senses gone, and the shadows of twilight are creeping on. With the eerie hum of the small pewees over there in the sedder trees, and the tinkle of bells in the marshy loam had told me the cows were coming home, and the sighing breeze came o'er the craft. But, ah, comes a melody far more soft, than the troubled notes of a lady on ute, or the echo in strains of a ferris flute. It bids me, awaken, and live, and rejoice. It is only the sound of that various voice, like an angel's whisper it comes to me. Wake up, you fool, and come to tea. Any taint in the spring, or a taint in the fall. But the close of a summer's day, that's all. End of Poo-in. This recording is in the po-