 Main Street, by Joyce Kilmer, read for LibriVox.org, by LG pug. For S.M.L. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight, as Main Street used to be, when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, and over the crisp and radiant road that ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide, is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dullly conscious of weight and speed, and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, and twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play, and there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car, and the elevated train, they make the weary city street reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword, and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street. By Joyce Kilmer. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kitchock. For S. M. L. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humaner than any other street, a city street that is busy and wide, is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dullly conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There are only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, and twenty or thirty people I guess, and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train, they make the weary city street reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaven Town. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Gilmer, read for Liverpoolx.org by Chad Horner from Liverpool. For S.M.L. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, and over the crespin-radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now the Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever fails. It is dually, conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognise its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train, they make the weary city street reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart, God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a purdy crown, but the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaven Tine. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer, read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. For SML. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow, and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white, with frost or dusty in the heat, because it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, and twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play, and there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car and the elevated train then make the weary city street reverberate with pain. But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword, and some are pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer. Read for LibriVox.org by Florence Short. For S.M.L. I like to look at the blossoming track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fond of sight as Main Street used to be. When it was all covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road, the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is duly conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about 100 teams on Main Street in a day, and 20 or 30 people, I guess, and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or a buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy the truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated drain. They make the weary city street reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword, and some a pearly crown. But the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer, read for LibriVox.org by Gemma Myers. For SML. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea. But it isn't half so fine a site as Main Street used to be. When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing. And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dulling conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends. But it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about 100 teams on Main Street in a day and 20 or 30 people, I guess, and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train, they make the weary city street reverberate with pain. But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath the butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer. Red for LibriVox.org by Gramscott Cheltenham, England. Gramscottaudio.com. For S.M.L. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves it was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dullly conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain, but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer. Read for LibriVox.org by Joseph Campbell. For S. M. L. I like to look at the blossoming track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be, when it was all covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it was a pleasant thing, and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat, because I think it's humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels, and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day, and twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children now to play. And there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train, they make the weary city street reverberate with pain. But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath the butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path my feet would shred whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown, but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, heaven town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Comer. Read for lipperox.org by Carilla Demyanicka. For SML. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea, but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it was all covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with rust or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaneer than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends, but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon or a buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car and the elevated train they make the wee city street reverberate with pain. But there is yet a necko left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath the butcher's cart God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a sober sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer, read for a LibriVox.org by Kevin S. for SML. I like to look at the blasphemy track of the moon upon the sea but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it was all covered over with a couple feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing and its goddess were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dullly conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath the butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky that's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. For SML. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves it was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I'd like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dullly conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people like us and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain but there is yet a necko left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky that's the path my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer redforlibberbox.org by Phil Shempf. For S. M. L. I'd like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea but it isn't half so finest sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves it was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I'd like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is a dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and the trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain. But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky. That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, heaven town. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter for SML. I like to look at the blossoming track of the moon upon the sea but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves. It was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaner than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon or buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky that's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, heaven, town and a poem this recording is in the public domain. Main Street by Joyce Kilmer read for LibriVox.org by Tuvarish for SML. I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea but it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be when it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow and over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go. Now Main Street bordered with autumn leaves it was a pleasant thing and its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the spring. I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat because I think it is humaneer than any other street. A city street that is busy and wide is ground by a thousand wheels and the burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels. It is dally conscious of weight and speed and of work that never ends but it cannot be human like Main Street and recognize its friends. There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street in a day and twenty or thirty people I guess and some children out to play and there wasn't a wagon a buggy or a man or a girl or a boy that Main Street didn't remember and somehow seemed to enjoy. The truck and the motor and trolley car and the elevated train they make the weary city street reverberate with pain but there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's cart. God be thanked for the milky way that runs across the sky that's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die. Some folks call it a silver sword and some a pearly crown but the only thing I think it is is Main Street, Heaven Town. End of poem this recording is in the public domain.