 Lydia is gone this many a year by Lizette Woodworth-Reeds, read for Liberbox.org by Dana Meilinger in May 2010. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stirs in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chambers there, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heave the purple bloom. A ghost so long as Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mental aid, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year by Lizette Woodworth-Reeds, read for Liberbox.org by David Goldfarb. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heave the purple bloom. A ghost so long as Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantel laid, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodward Reese, read for Liberbox.org by David Lawrence. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heave the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantel laid, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year by Lisette Woodward Reese, read for Liberbox.org by Ernst Patinama. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heave the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on manta-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall. Of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, when the satwood verse reads, read for Liberbox.org by Ellie. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heave the purple bloom. It goes too long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on manta-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in the yard's the neighbor's walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Rees. Read for Liberbox.org by Vedra. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broidered and gilded and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on manta-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yard's the neighbor's walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Rees. Read for Liberbox.org by Algie Pug, Perth, Western Australia. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on manta-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in the yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year by Lisette Woodworth Rees, read for Liberbox.org by Christian Hughes. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on manta-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in the yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Rees, read for Liberbox.org by Leanne Howlett. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantel laid, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbors walk among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Rees, read for Liberbox.org by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbors walk among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilacs stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbors walk among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbors walk among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided and guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in the yards the neighbors walk among the blossoms tall. Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Reese, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Collins, May 17, 2010, Roswell, Georgia. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, brooded in guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in the yards the neighbors walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lisette Woodworth Reese, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. The ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, brooded in guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantelade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbors walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year by Lizette Woodworth Reese, read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golden. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided in guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantel-lade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lydia is gone this many a year, by Lizette Woodworth Reese, read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. Lydia is gone this many a year, yet when the lilac stir, in the old gardens far or near, the house is full of her. They climb the twisted chamber stair, her picture haunts the room. On the carved shelf beneath it there, they heap the purple bloom. A ghost so long has Lydia been, her cloak upon the wall, broided in guilt and faded green, seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on Mantlade, the shells in a pale row, are those of some dim little maid, a thousand years ago. And yet the house is full of her, she goes and comes again, and longings thrill and memories stir, like lilacs in the rain. Out in their yards the neighbours walk, among the blossoms tall, of Anne of Phyllis do they talk, of Lydia not at all.