 Betty by Lola Ridge, read for Librabox.org by Shona Bobdon-Starble. You can see the sandhills from our new room. Butterflies live in the sandhills and lizards and centipedes. If you keep very still, lizards will think you a stone and run over your lap. These liveries are scarlet and black. They drive chariots in air. People in the chariots are pale as dew. You can see right through them. But the chariots are made of gold of the sun. They go up to heaven and never catch fire. There are green centipedes and brown centipedes and black centipedes because green and brown and black are the colors in hell's black. Centipedes have hundreds of feet because it is so far from hell to come up for air. Centipedes do not hurry. They are waiting for the last day when they will creep over the false prophets who will have their hands tied. Night calls to the sandhills and gathers them under her. She pushes away cities because their sharp lights hurt her soft breast. Green candles make a sore place when they stick in the night. There are things in the sandhills that no one knows about. They come out at dark when the young snakes play and tell each other secrets in the death logs. Sometimes before rain when the stars have gone inside, the night comes close to your window and sniffs at the light, but you must not run away. You must keep your face to the night and walk backward. When it rains and you are pulling off flies legs, mama lets you play houses with Lizzie and Clara because you are the only one and because only ones have to live alone while sisters stay together. Lizzie and Clara give you the dry house and take the one with the leaking roof. Rain like curly hairpins blows on Lizzie and Clara's two heads turn like one head. Two mouths spread into one laugh. Lizzie is saying why don't you want to play when you feel you'd like to braid the crinkled silver rain into a shining rope to climb up and up and up into the wet sky and never see anyone again. Our gate doesn't hang right. It must have pawed at the wind and gotten a kick as the wind passed over. The sitting sky puffs out a gray smoke and the wind makes a red striped sound blowing out straight, but our gate drags its foot and whines to itself on one hinge. What do you think I found? Two wee knickers of belly brass or two gold sovereigns folded up in a bit of green silk or two gold bugs and little green shirts. If you want to know, you must walk tiptoe so your feet just whisper in the grass. You must carry them careful and very proud for their stems bleed drops of milk. But Lizzie and Clara shout in glee, Pea-bad, Pea-bad dandelions. You look in the eyes of grown-up people to see if they feel the way you feel, but they hide inside of themselves and so you do not find out. Grown-up people say the stars are bright tonight, but they do not say what you are thinking about stars. Not even Mama says what you are thinking about stars. This makes you feel very lonely. It's strange about stars. You have to be still when they look at you. They push your song inside of you with their song. Their long silvery rays sink into you and do not hurt. It is good to feel them resting on you like great white birds and their shining whiteness doesn't burn like the sun. It washes all over you and makes you feel cleaner in water. My doll Janie has no waist and her body is like a tub with feet on it. Sometimes I beat her, but I always kiss her afterwards. When I have kissed all the paint off her body, I shall tie a ribbon about it, so she shan't look shabby, but it must be blue, it mustn't be pink. Pink shows the dirt on her face that won't wash off. I beat Janie and beat her, but still she smiled, so I scratched her between the eyes with a pin. Now she doesn't love me anymore. She scowls and scowls, though I begged her to forgive me and poured sugar in the hole at the back of her head. Mama says Janie is a fairy doll and she has forgiven me. That she's gone to the market to buy me some sweets. Now she's at the door and a little bag tied to her neck. I run to Janie and kiss her all over. Ah, she's still frowning. I let the sweets drop on the floor. Mama has told you a lie. China man singing in street, gleaned letashes, gleaned letashes. Hot sun shining on your face. It must be a new day. But why aren't you happy if it's a new day? Because something has happened. Something sad and terrible. Now I remember. It's Janie. Yesterday I took Janie out and tied my handkerchief over her face and put sand in it and threw her into the ditch down in the black water under the dark leaves. And when Mama asked me where Janie was, I said I had lost her. I'm glad it is night time, so I'll be able to go to sleep and forget all about it. But Mama looks at my tongue and says she will give me sanity. When you smell the tea, you shut your eyes tight and pretend not to hear the soft, cool voice of Mama that goes over your forehead like a little wind. And then you lie in the dark and stare and stare till the faces come. Yellow faces with leering eyes drifting in a greening mist. I wonder if Janie sees faces out there alone in the dark. I wonder if she has got the handkerchief off or if the water has gone in the hole where the whistle was at the back of her head and drowned her. Or if the stars can see her under the dark leaves. It's smoky blue and still over the red road. Wind must be lying down with its tail under it, doesn't even flick off the flies. And you can hear the silence buzzing in the gum trees. The way the angels buzzed when they flew through the cedars of Lebanon with thin gauze wings you could see through. Nice to hear the silence buzzing till it comes too close and booms in your ears and presses all over you till you scream. When you scream at the silence it goes to jingling pieces like a silver mirror broken into tiny bits. Perhaps its wings are made of glass. Perhaps it lives down in a dark dark cave and only comes up to warn its wings in the sun. It's cold in the cave, no matter how you cover yourself up. Little girls sit there dressed in white and the dolls in their arms all have white handkerchiefs over their faces. Their shadows cannot play with them. Their shadows lie down at their feet for the little girl sits stiff as stones with their backs to the mouth of the cave where little light falls off the wings of the silence when it comes down out of the sun. Moon catches the flying fish as they dive in the bay. Flying fish spin over and over. Slippity silver into the water. Mom bends over jungles and touches the forage of tigers as they pass under openings made by dropped leaves. Tigers stop on the trail of the deer while the moon is on their forage. They let the stags go by. Moon is shining strangely on the white palings of the fence. Fence keeps very still. Most times it moves a little. Everything moves a little though you may know it. But now the little fence wouldn't change places with the great cross that stands so stiff and high with its back to the moon. Moon shining strangely on the white palings of the fence. I'm shining too but my light is shut inside of me and can't get out. Old house with black windows. Blind house begging moonlight to put out the shadows. Why do you want so much light? You creak when the wind steps on you. You cough up dust and your beams ache. You know you will soon fall. The moon just pities you. Don't waste yourself moon. Come on my bed and play with me. Wrap me up in blue light. You who are cool. I am too hot. I am all alive and the shadows are outside of me. There are different kinds of shadows. The blind ones are the shadows of things. These are the tame shadows. They love to play on the wall with you and follow you about like cats and dogs. Sometimes they hiss at you softly like snakes that do not bite or swish like women's dresses but if you poke a candle at them your heads and disappear. But there is a shadow that is not the shadow of a thing. It is a thing itself. When you meet the shadow you must not look at it too long. It grows with your looking at it till you are all alone with nothing around you. Nothing. Nothing. But a shadow with its eyes full of black light. There is a shadow in the corner of the shed crouching lying in wait a black coiled shadow watching ready to strike but I mustn't be afraid of it. I mustn't be afraid of anything. Poor evil shadow the candle would chase it away only she can't get at it. Do you think that everyone hates you shadow with your back to the wall afraid to lie down and sleep? But I don't hate you even the moon means to be kind. She just treads on you as I tread on a worm that I didn't see. Don't be afraid of me shadow. See I've no light in my hand nothing to save myself with yet I walk right up to you if you'll let me I'll put my arms around you and stroke you softly. Are you surprised I put my arms around you? Is it your black black sorrow that nobody loves you? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org Low, death has reared himself a throne in a strange city lying alone far down within the dim west where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers time-eaten towers that tremble not resemble nothing that is ours around by lifting winds forgot resignedly beneath the sky the melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down on the long nighttime of that town but light from out the lurid sea streams up the torrent silently gleams up the pinnacles far and free foams up spires up kingly halls up thanes up Babylon like walls up shadowy long forgotten bowers of sculptured ivy and stone flowers up many and many a marvelous shrine whose reathed freezes intertwine the vial the violet and the vine resignedly beneath the sky the melancholy waters lie so blend the torrents and the shadows there that all seem pendulous in air while from a proud tower in the town death looks gigantically down there open veins and gaping graves yawn level with the luminous waves but not the riches there that lie in each idol's diamond eye not the gaily-jeweled dead tempt the waters from their bed for no ripples curl alas along the wilderness of glass no swellings tell that winds may be upon some far-off happier sea no heavings hint that winds have been on seas less hideously serene but lo a stir in the air the wave there is a movement there as if the towers had thrust aside in slightly sinking the dull tide as if their tops had feebly given a void within the filmy heaven the waves have now a redder glow the hours are breathing faint and low and when amid no earthly moans down, down that town shall settle hence hell rising from a thousand thrones shall do it reverence End of poem This recording is in the public domain Read by Alan Davis Drake El Dorado by Edgar Alan Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Revan Notation Gaily bedight a gallant night in sunshine and in shadow had journeyed long singing a song in search of El Dorado but he grew old this night so bold in his heart a shadow fell as he found no spot of ground that looked like El Dorado and as his strength failed him at length he met a pilgrim shadow shadow says he where can it be this land of El Dorado over the mountains of the moon down the valley of the shadow ride boldly ride the shade reply if you seek for El Dorado End of poem This recording is in the public domain From a Railway Carriage by Robert Louis Stevenson Recorded for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding Faster than fairies, faster than witches, britches and houses, hedges and ditches and charging along like troops in a battle all through the meadows, the horses and cattle all of the sights of the hill and the plain workers driving rain and ever again in the wink of an eye painted stations whistle by here is a child who clambours and scrambles all by himself and gathering brambles here is a tramp who stands and gazes and there is the green for stringing the daisies here is a cart run away in the road lumping along with man and load and here is a mill and there is a river each a glimpse and gone forever End of poem This recording is in the public domain Going Home Today by Will Carlton Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence in Brampton, Ontario, April 2009 My business on the jury's done the quiblin all is through I've watched the lawyers right and left and give my verdict true I stuck so long into my chair I thought I would grow in and if I do not know myself they'll get me there again but now the court's adjourned for good and I have gotten my pay I'm loose at last and thank the Lord I'm going home today I've somehow felt uneasy like since first day I come down it is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town and this airs Sunday suit of mine on Sunday rightly sets but when I wear the stuff a week it somehow galls and frets I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper salt and grey I'll have it on in half a jiff when I get home today I have no doubt my wife looked out as well as anyone as well as any woman could to see that things was done for though Melinda, when I'm there won't set her foot outdoors she's very careful when I'm gone to tend to all the chores but nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay and I will put things into shape when I get home today the morning that I come away we had a little bout I coolly took my hat and left before the show was out for what I said was not where at she ought to take offence and she was always quick at words and ready to commence but then she's first one to give up when she has had her say and she will meet me with a kiss today my little boy I'll give him leave to match him if they can it's fun to see him stout about and try to be a man the game is cheery as little chap you'd ever want to see and then they laugh because I think the child resembles me the little rogue he goes for me like robbers for their prey he'll turn my pockets inside out and can't contrive which should happen thus that God could pick that sweet bouquet and fling it down to us my wife she says that handsome face will someday make a stir and then I laugh because she thinks the child resembles her she'll meet me half way down the hill and kiss me any way and light my heart up with her smiles when I go home today if there's a heaven upon the earth then he's been away from home a week and then gets back again if there's a heaven above the earth there's often I'll be bound some homesick fellow meets his folks and hugs him all around but let my creed be right or wrong or be it as it may my heaven is just ahead of me I'm going home today end of poem this recording is in the public domain by Cory Samuel when I see you who was so wise and cool gazing with silly sickness on that fool you've given your love to your adoring hands touch his so intimately that each understands I know most hidden things and when I know your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow of his red lips and that the empty grace of those strong legs and arms that rosy face has beaten your heart to such a flame of love that you have given him every touch and move wrinkle and secret of you all your life oh then I know I'm waiting love our wife for the great time when love is at a close and all its fruits to watch the thickening and sweaty neck and dulling face and eye that are yours and you most surely till you die day after day you'll sit with him and note the greasier tie the dingy wrinkling coat as prettiness turns to pomp and strength to fat and love love to habit and after that when all that's fine in man is at an end and you that loved young life and clean must tend a foul sick, fumbling, dribbling body and old when his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold slobber and you're enduring that worst thing senility's queasy furtive love-making and searching those dear eyes and meaning propping the bald and helpless head and cleaning a scrap that life's flung by and love's forgotten then you'll be tired and passion dead and rotten and he'll be dirty, dirty oh, lithe and free and light foot that the poor heart cries to see that's how I'll see your man and you but you oh, when that time comes you will be dirty too end of poem this recording is in the public domain me and perturbed by Walt Whitman read for libervox.org by Bologna Times me and perturbed standing at ease in nature master of all or mistress of all a poem in the midst of irrational things imbued as they passive receptive silent as they finding my occupation poverty notoriety foibles crimes less important than I thought me toward the mexican sea or in the manahata or the tenacy or far north or inland or of any farm life of these states or of the coast or the lakes or canada me wherever my life is lived oh, to be self balanced for contingencies to confront night storms, hunger, ridicule accidents, rebuffs as the trees and animals do end of poem this recording is in the public domain at their convent's narrow room by William Wordsworth read for libervox.org by Alan Davis Drake nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room and hermits are contented with their cells and students with their pensive citadels maids at the wheel the weaver at his loom sit blithe and happy bees that soar for bloom high is the highest peak the furnace fells will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells in truth the prison unto which we doom ourselves no prison is and hence for me in sundry moods to us pass time to be bound within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground pleased if some souls for such their needs must be who have felt the weight of too much liberty should find brief solace there as I have found end of poem this recording is in the public domain owed to music by Joseph Wharton read for libervox.org by storm queen of every moving measure sweetest source of purest pleasure music why thy powers employ only for the sons of joy only for the smiling guests at natal or at nuptial feasts rather thy lenient numbers pour on those whom secret griefs devour bit be still the throbbing hearts of those whom death or absence parts and with some softly whispered air smooth the brow of dumb despair end of poem this recording is in the public domain the old timer by Arthur Chapman read for libervox.org by Ray Smith Phoenix, Arizona he showed up in the springtime when the geese began to honk he signed up with the outfit and we fattened up his bronc his shafts were old and tattered but he never seemed to mind cause for worrying and fretting he had never been designed he's the type of cattle puncher that has vanished now of course with his hundred dollar saddle he seemed to bother over fortunes ups and downs and he never quit his singing when the gang was full of frowns he would lose his roundup money in an hour of swift play but he never seemed discouraged when he ambled on his way he would hit the trail of singing and his smile was out full force though he'd lost his fancy saddle and he didn't have horse I have wondered where he wanders in these late degenerate years when there are no boundless ranges where there are no longhorn steers but I warrant he is cheerful though unfriendly is the trail and his cigarette is flowing though his grub supply may fail for he had life's happy secret he had traced it to the source in his hundred dollar saddle on his twenty dollar horse end of poem this recording is in the public domain and the children at the gate and the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight there are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence and the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence oh there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome that can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home men have sought for gold and silver men have dreamed at night of fame in the heat of youth they've struggled for achievements on her name and their tints are tinsel and their shining jewels paste and the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the taste for there's never any laughter how so ever far you roam like the laughter of the loved ones in the happiness of home end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Philosopher by Edna St. Vincent Millay read for LibriVox by Elizabeth Burnett and what are you that wanting you I should be kept awake as many nights as there are days with weeping for your sake and what are you that missing you as many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind and looking at the wall I know a man that's a braver man and twenty men is kind and what are you that you should be the one man on my mind yet women's ways are witless ways as any sage will tell and what am I that I should love so wisely and so well I mean To Be a Pilgrim by John Bunyan from The Pilgrim's Progress Part 2 Section 4 read for LibriVox.org by John Nixon the Supercargo of www.thesupercargo.com Who would true valor see let him come hither one here will constant be come wind, come weather there's no discouragement shall make him once relent his first avowed intent to be a pilgrim whoso beset him round with dismal stories do but themselves confound his strength the more is no lion can him fright heal with a giant fight but he will have a right to be a pilgrim hobgoblin nor foul fiend condaunt his spirit the end shall life inherit then fancies fly away he'll not fear what men say he'll labor night and day to be a pilgrim end of poem this recording is in the public domain starting from Pomenok by Walt Whitman read for LibriVox.org by Bologna Times starting from fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped fish shaped starting from fish shaped Pomenok, where I was born well begotten and raised by a perfect mother after roaming many lands lover of populist pavements dweller in manahatta my city or on southern savanna's or a soldier camp or carrying my naxac and gun or a miner in California or reward in my house in Dakota's woods my diet, meat, my drink from the spring or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess, far from the clank of crowds, intervals passing, wrapped, and happy. Aware of the fresh free-giver, the flowing Missouri, aware of the mighty Niagara, aware of the buffalo herds grazing the plains, the hersoot and strong breasted bull of earth, rocks, fifth-month flowers, experienced, stars, rain, snow, my amaze. Having studied the mockingbird's tones, and the flight of the mountain-hawk, and heard it dawn, the unrivaled one, the hermit-thrush, from the swamp-seaters, solitary, singing in the west, I strike up for a new world. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tasting the Earth by James Oppenheim. Red for LibriVox.org by Harry Caulfield. In a dark hour. Tasting the Earth. As I lay on my couch in the muffled night, and the rain lashed my window, and my forsaken heart would give me no rest, no pause, and no peace. Though I turned my face far from the wailing of my bereavement, then I said, I will eat of this sorrow to its last shred. I will take it unto me utterly. I will see if I be not strong enough to contain it. What do I fear? Discomfort? How can it hurt me, this bitterness? The miracle, then. Tasting toward it, and giving up to it, I found it deeper than my own self. O dark great mother globe so close beneath me, it was she with her inexhaustible grief, ages of blood-drenched jungles, and the smoking of craters, and the roar of tempests, and moan of the forsaken seas. It was she with the hills beginning to walk in the shapes of the dark-hearted animals. It was she risen, dashing away tears and praying to dumb skies in the pump-crumbling tragedy of man. It was she, container of all griefs, and the buried dust of broken hearts, cry of the Christ and the lovers and the child-stripped mothers, and ambition gone down to defeat, and the battle overborn, and the dreams that have awakened. My heart became her ancient heart. On the food of the strong, I fed, on dark, strange life itself. Wisdom giving and somber with the unremitting love of ages. There was dank soil in my mouth, and bitter sea on my lips, in a dark hour, tasting the earth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Things That Matter by E. Nesbitt, recorded for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding Now that I've nearly done my days and grown too stiff to sweep or so, I sit and think till I'm amazed about what lots of things I know. Things as I've found out one by one, and when I'm fast down in the clay, my knowing things and how they're done will all be lost and thrown away. There's things I know as won't be lost, things as folks write and talk about, the way to keep your roots from frost and how to get your ink spots out, what medicines good for sores and sprains, what way to salt your butter down, what charms will cure your different pains and what will bright your faded gown. But more important things than these they can't be written in a book. How fast to boil your greens and peas, and how good bacon ought to look. The feel of real good-wearing stuff, the kind of apple as we'll keep, the look of bread that's rose enough, and how to get a child asleep. Whether the jam is fit to pot, whether the milk is going to turn, whether a hen will lay or not, is things as some folks never learn. I know the weather by the sky, I know what herbs grow in what lane, and if sick men are going to die or if they'll get about again. Young wives come in, a smiling grave, with secrets that they itch to tell. I know what sort of times they'll have, and if they'll have a boy or girl. And if a lad is ill to bind or some young maid is hard to lead, I know when you should speak him kind, and when it's scolding as they need. I used to know where birds had set, and likely spots for trout or hare, and God may want me to forget the way to set a line or snare. But not the way to troth a chick, to fry a fish or base to roast, nor how to tell when folks are sick what kind of herb will ease them most. Forgetting seems such silly waste. I know so many little things, and now the angels will make haste to dust it all away with wings. Oh, God, you made me like to know. You kept the things straight in my head. Please, God, if you can make it so, let me know something when I'm dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It may indeed be fantasy, when I is say to draw from all created things deep, heart felt inward joy that closely clings, and trace and leaves and flowers that round me lie, lessons of love and earnest piety. So let it be, and if the wide world rings in mock of this belief, it brings no fear, no grief, nor vain perplexity. So will I build my altar in the fields, and the blue sky my thredded dome shall be, and the sweet fragrance of the wildflower yields, shall be the incense I will yield to thee, the only God, and thou shall not despise even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To hear others, or to learn about volunteering, please visit LibriVox.org. The Vicar of Bray by Anonymous. Read for LibriVox.org by John Nixon, the supercargo of www.thesupercargo.com. In Good King Charles' golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was I, and so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never missed. Kings were by God appointed, and lost all those that dare resist and touch the lords anointed, and this is law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir. When Royal James possessed the crown and potpourri came in fashion, the penal laws I hooted down and read the declaration, the church of Rome I found would fit full well my constitution, and I had been a Jesuit, but for the revolution, and this is law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir. When William was our king declared to ease the nation's grievance, with this new wind about I steered and swore to him allegiance. Oh, principles I did revoke set conscience at a distance. Passive obedience was a joke, a jest was none resistance, and this is law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir. When Royal Anne became our queen the church of England's glory, another face of things was seen, and I became a Tory. Occasional conformists base I blamed their moderation, and thought the church in danger was by such prevarication, and this is law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir. When George, in pudding time, came her and moderate men look big, sir. My principles I changed once more, and so became a wig, sir, and thus preferment I procured from our new faith's defender, and almost every day abjured the pope and the pretender. And this is law that I'll maintain until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign I'll still be Vicar of Bray, sir. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Where there's a will, there's a way, by Eliza Cook. Read for LibriVox.org by Ray Smith. We have faith in all proverbs for Shirley, for wisdom has traced what they tell, and truth may be drawn up as purely from them as it may from a well. Let us question the thinkers and doers, and hear what they honestly say, and you'll find they believe like bold wooers in where there's a will, there's a way. The hills have been high for man's mounting. The woods have been dense for his axe. The stars have been thick for his counting. The sands have been wide for his tracks. The sea has been deep for his diving. The poles have been broad for his sway. But bravely he's proved in his striving that where there's a will, there's a way. Have you vices that ask a destroyer, or passions that need your control, that reason become your employer, and your body be ruled by your soul? Fight on, though you bleed in the trial. Resist with all strength that you may. You may conquer, since host by denial, for where there's a will, there's a way. Have you poverty's pinching to cope with? Does suffering weigh down your might? Only call up a spirit to hope with, and dawn may come out of the night. All much may be done by defying the ghosts of despair and dismay, and much may be gained by relying on where there's a will, there's a way. Should you see a far off that worth winning, set out on the journey with trust, and their heed of your path at beginning should be among brambles and dust. Though it is, but by footsteps you do it, and hardships may hinder and stay. Walk with faith, and be sure you'll get through it. For where there's a will, there's a way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.