 The Sorrows of Werther by W. M. Thackeray Red for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman Werther had a love for Charlotte, such as words could never utter. Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, and a moral man was Werther, and for all the wealth of Indies would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, and his passion boiled and bubbled, till he blew his silly brains out, and no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body, born before her on a shudder, like a well-conducted person, went on cutting bread and butter, and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Three Apotaphs by Countay P. Cullen Red for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. For my grandmother, this lovely flower fell to seed, work gently, sun and rain. She held it as her dying greed, that she would grow again. For a virgin lady, for forty years I shunned the lust, inherent in my clay. Death only was so amorous, I let him have his way. A lady I know. She thinks that even up in heaven her class lies late and snores, while poor black cherubs rise at seven to do celestial chores. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Time by Anna Cora-Mollett. Red for LibriVox.org by K. Taylor O7, January 17, 2020. www.tla.wapshotpress.org. Nay, rail-modded time, though a tyrant he be, and say not he cometh, colossal in might, our beauty to ravish, put pleasure to flight, and pluck away friends, even as leaves from the tree, and say not love's torch, which like vestas should burn, the cold breath of time soon to ashes will turn. You call time a robber? Nay, he is not so. While beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils, the mine to enrich with its plunder he toils, and, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow, the magnet mid-stars points the north still to view, so time, among our friends, ere discloses the true, though cares then should gather as pleasures flee by, though time from thy features the charm still away, he'll dim to mine eye, lest it see them decay, and sorrows we've shared will knit closer love's tie, then I'll laugh at old time, and all he can do, for he'll rob me in vain if he leave me but you. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. Breathing comfort and ghastly fear. Voices I hear. I hear strange voices, flitting, calling, wavering by on the dusky blast. Come, let us go, for the night is falling. Come, let us go, for the day is past. Groups of joys are they, now departed, winged hopes that no longer stay, guardian spirits grown weary-hearted, powers that have lingered their latest day. What do they say? What do they sing? I hear them calling, whispering, gathering, flying fast. Come, come, for the night is falling. Come, come, for the day is past. Sing they to me? Thy tapers wasted, mortal, by sands of life run low. Thy hours, like a flock of birds, have hastened. Time is ending. We go, we go. Sing they so? Mystical voices, floating, calling, dim farewells. The last, the last. Come, come away, the night is falling. Come, come away, the day is past. See, I am ready, twilight voices. Child of the spirit world, am I. How should I fear you? My soul rejoices. Oh, speak plainer. Oh, draw nigh. Thane would I fly. Tell me your message. Ye who have called out of the dimnest vague and vast. Lift me, take me. The night is falling. Quick, let us go. The day is past. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Verses suggested by the perusal of an epitaph in Barry Churchyard by Bernard Barton, read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. When Siloam's tower in fragments drew to ground, and by its faults bred awe and terror round, think ye that they on whom the ruin fell were worse than those who lived their fate to tell. I say unto ye, nay, that righteous God, who rules the nations with his awful nod, without whose knowledge not a sparrow dies, looks not on such events with human eyes. The bolt he hurls by boundless mercy sped oft strikes the saints, but spares the sinner's head. And while frail mortals scan effect and cause, his love pursues its own unerring laws, gives the glad saint his final recompense, the sinner spares perchance for penitence. What though the storm might rise, the clouds might lower, and muttering thunders mark the vesper hour, what though the little suppliant might be taught, a form of faith with numerous errors fraught. Yet he, whose eye is on the heart alone, the guileless homage of this child might own, and mid the terrors of a stormy even, call with approving smile her soul to heaven. While simple merry, innocently bold, with virtuous diligence her vesper's told, who knows how many, votaries of a creed, which teaches purer faith in word and deed, with hands uplifted, but with hearts unmoved, proffered their supplications unapproved. Nay, they might even, when the storm was over, short-sightedly this stencils faith deplore, and blindly deprecate her dreadful doom, thus early crowned with glorious martyrdom. Not so, sweet girl, would I, a nameless part, thy happy holy destiny regard, to me thou seems like one who early fit for heaven and heaven alone would call to it, by piety and purity prepared, and by thy sacred destiny declared, and gods all seeing and unerring eyes, a spotless lamb most meet for sacrifice, and like Elijah's lot in olden time I own thy end with sudden but sublime. The car of glory and the steeds of fire bore from Elisha's view his sainted sire, and unto thee, by hallowed fire from heaven, the boon of immortality was given. The epitaph which suggested the proceeding is as follows. Here lies in third the body of Mary Singleton, a young maiden of this parish, age nine years old, born of Roman Catholic parents, and virtuously brought up, who, being in the act of prayer, repeating her vespers, was instantaneously killed by a flash of lightning, August 16th, 1785. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A wedding song by John White Chadwick. Read for livervox.org by Gina Briggs. I said, my heart, let us sing a song for a fair lady on her wedding day, some solemn hymn or pretty round delay, that shall be with her as she goes along to meet her joy, and for her happy feet shall make a pleasant music low and sweet. Then, said my heart, it is right bold of thee to think that any song that we could sing would for this lady be an offering. Meet for such gladness as hers needs must be, what time she goes to don her bridal ring, and her own heart makes sweetest caroling. And so it is that with my loot unstrung, lady, I come to greet thy wedding day. But once, me thinks, I heard a poet say, the sweetest songs remain for I unsung, so mine unsung at thy dear feet I lay, with a peace be with you, go my way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When We Too Parted by Lord Byron. Read for livervox.org by Peter Tomlinson. When We Too Parted in silence and tears, half broken hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss. Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow. It felt like the warning of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame. I hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame. They name thee before me, and knell to mine ear. A shudder comes o'er me. Why work thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, who knew thee too well. Long, long shall I rue thee, too deeply to tell. In secret we met, in silence I grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee? With silence and tears. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is in winter that we dream of spring, by Robert Burns Wilson. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. It is in winter that we dream of spring. For all the barren bleakness and the cold, the longing fancy sees the frozen mould decked with sweet blossoming. Though all the birds be silent, though the fettered stream soft voice be still, and on the leafless bow the snow be rested marble-like and chill, yet will the fancy build from these the transient but well-pleasing dream of leaf and bloom among the trees and sunlight glancing on the stream. Though to the eye the joyless landscape yields no faintest sign to which the hope might cling amidst the pallid desert with the fields, it is in winter that we dream of spring. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter Rain, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. Falling upon the frozen world last night, I heard the slow beat of the winter rain. Poor foolish drops, down dripping all in vain. The ice-bound earth but mocked their puny might, far better had the fixedness of white and uncomplaining snows, which make no sign, but coldly smile when pitying moonbeams shine. Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. Though sinewy fate deals her most skillful blow, I do not waste the gall now of my tears, but feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world's bold eyes and smile. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.