 Blow, Bugle, Blow, by Alfred Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. The splendor falls on castle walls and snowy summits old in story. The long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, Bugle, Blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, Bugle, Answer, echoes dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear, how thin and clear, and thinner clearer farther going. O sweet and far from cliff and scar, the horns of Elfland faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying. Blow, Bugle, Answer, echoes dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yawn-rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow forever and forever. Blow, Bugle, Blow, set the wild echoes flying. And Answer, echoes answer dying, dying, dying. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Collaridge by George Sidney Hellman. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Thine is the mystic melody. The far-off murmur of some dreamland sea, lifting throughout the night up to the moon's mild light, waves silver lustrous silvery white that beat in rhythm on the shadowy shore, and burst in music and are seen no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Eagle by Alfred Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. He clasps the crag with crooked hands, close to the sun in lonely lands, ringed with the azure world he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls, he watches from his mountain walls, and like a thunderbolt he falls. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Epitaph on the World. By Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Here lies the body of this world, whose soul alas to hell is hurled. This golden youth long since was past, its silver manhood went as fast, and iron age drew on at last, to disvain its character to tell, the several fates which it befell, God year had died when twill arise, and we only know that here it lies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf. By Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf than I may not disappoint myself, that in my action I may soar as high as I can now discern with this clear eye, and next in value, which thy kindness lends, that I may greatly disappoint my friends, however they think or hope that it may be, they may not dream how doubts distinguished me, that my weak hand may equal my firm faith, and my life practice more than my tongue safe, that my low conduct may not show, nor my relenting lines, that I thy purpose did not know or overrated thy designs. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Habanera from Bizet's Carmen. Lyrics by Ludovitz Alevi and Henri Melanc de Levant. Translated by George Cooper. Read for LibriVox.org by Squidwaj Lakova. The Habanera of Carmen. Love is just like a bird rebelling, and how to conquer him? Who knows? Vein his whims you may think of quelling. If he refuse what you propose, deaf to menace and pleading prayers, he quickly speaks or says no word, but I much prefer when he cares to silent be, like songless bird. Oh love, oh love, oh love, oh love, oh love, bohemious child is he, and never had a thought of rule or care, if thou dost love not me, I love thee. And if I love thee, then beware. If thou dost love not me, I love thee. And if I love thee, if I love thee, do thou beware. So the bird, when you think to bind him, will spread his wings and fly away. Love has vanished when you would find him, but seek him not, he'll by you stay. All about you he's lightly winging, he comes and goes at his sweet will, try to catch him, he flies off singing, though you deviate him, seeks you still. Oh love, oh love, oh love, oh love, oh love, bohemious child is he, and never had a thought of rule or care, if thou dost love not me, I love thee. And if I love thee, then beware. If thou dost love not me, I love thee. And if I love thee, if I love thee, ah then, beware. I knew a man by sight, by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. I knew a man by sight, a blameless white, who, for a year or more, had daily passed my door, yet converse none had had with him. I met him in a lane, him and his cane, about three miles from home, where I had chanced to Rome, and volumes shared at him, and he at me. In a more distant place I glimpsed his face, and bowed instinctively, starting he bowed to me, bowed simultaneously, and passed along. Just in a foreign land I grasped his hand, and had a social chat, about this and that, as I had known him well a thousand years. Late in the wilderness I shared his mess, for he had hardship seen, and I a wanderer been. He was my bosom friend, and I was his. And as, me thinks, shall all, both great and small, that ever lived on earth, early or late their birth, stranger and foe, one day each other know. THE AIR WITHOUT HAS TAKEN FEVER, FAST I FEEL THE BEATING OF ITS PULSE, THE LEAVES ARE TWISTED ON THE MAPLE, IN THE CORN THE AUTOMS PREMATURE, THE WEARY BUTTERFLY HANGS WAITING FOR A BREATH TO WAFT HIM THITHER AT THE TOUCH, BUT FALLS LIKE TRUTH UNHEATED, AND TO DUST BLOWN GRASS AND HOLLYHOCKS. THE AIR WITHOUT IS BLINDING DUSTY, COOL I FEEL THE BREEZES BLOW, I SEE THE SUNLIGHT, CROUTERED ON THE PORCH, GROW SMALLER, TILL ABSORBED IN SHADOW, AND THE FAR BLUE HILLS ARE CHANGE TO GRAY, AND TWILIGHT LINGERS IN THE WOODS BETWEEN, AND NOW I HEAR THE SHOWER DANCING IN THE CORN FIELD, AND THE THIRSTY GRASS. END OF POEM, THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. THE LITTLE REBEL BY JOSEPH ASHBEE STERRY, REDFULIBREVOX.ORG BY CARON SAVAGE. PRINCESS OF PRETTY PETS, TOMBOY IN TRAUSARETES, EYES ARE LIKE VIOLATES GLEEFULLY GLANCING. SKIN LIKE AN OTTEST SLEEK, NOSE LIKE A BABY GREEK, SWEET LITTLE DIMPLE CHEEK, MEREALLY DANCING. LARK LIKE HER SONG IT TRILLS OVER THE DALE AND HILLS, HAWK HOW HER LAUGHDER THRILLS JOYUSLY JOKING. Yet should she feel inclined, I fancy you will find, she, like all womankind, oft is provoking. Often she stands on chairs, sometimes she unawares, slyly creeps up the stairs, secretly hiding. Then will this merry maid, she is of not afraid, come down the balustrade, sorcery sliding. Books she abominates, but see her go on skates, and over five-barred gates, fearlessly scramble. Climbing up apple trees, barking her supple knees, flouting mama's decrees, out for a ramble. Now she is good as gold, then she is pertinent bold, mind not what she is told, carelessly tripping. She is an April miss, bounding from grief to bliss, often she has a kiss, sometimes a whipping. Naughty but best of girls, through life she gaily twirls, shaking her sunny curls, careless and joyful. Everyone on her dotes, caroling merry notes, pet in short petticoats, truly tomboyful. My books I'd feign cast off, I cannot read. My books I'd feign cast off, I cannot read. Twixed every page my thoughts go stray at large, down in the meadow. Where is richer feed? And will not mind to hit their proper targ. Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too. Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again. What Plutarch read, that was not good, nor true. Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men. Here while I lie beneath this walnut-bow, what care I for the Greeks or for Troy-town? If juster battles are enacted between the ants upon this hummock's crown? Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, if red or black the gods will favour most, or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, struggling to heave some rock against the host. Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure-hour. For now I've business with this drop of dew. And see you not? The clouds prepare a shower. I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. This bed of herds-grass and wild oats was spread last year with nicer skilled-in-monarchs use. A clover-tuffed is pillow from my head, and violets quite overtop my shoes. And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, and gently swells the wind to say, All's well. The scatter drops are falling fast and thin, some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. I am well drenched upon my bed of oats, but see the globe come rolling down its stem. Now like a lonely planet there it floats, and now it sinks into my garment's hem. Drip the trees for all the country round, and richness rare distills from every bow. The wind alone it makes every sound, shaking down crystals on the leaves below. For shame the sun will never show himself. Who could not with his beams air melt me so? My dripping locks they would become an elf. Who, in a bedded coat, does gaily go? My life has been the poem I would have written. My life has been the poem I would have written. But I could not both live and utter it. No engines shrieking rescue storm the night, and hose and hydrant cannot hear a veil. The flames laugh high and fling their challenging light, and clouds turn gray and black from silver pale. The fire leaps out and licks the ancient walls, and the big building bends and twists and groans. A bar drops from its place, a rafter falls burning the flowers. The wind in frenzy moans, the watchers gaze, held wondering by the fire, the dwellers cry their sorrow to the crowd. The flames beyond themselves rise higher, higher, to lose their glory in the frowning cloud, yielding at length the last reluctant breath. The night has a thousand eyes in the day but one, yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes in the heart but one, yet the life of a whole life dies when love is done. O where do the fairies hide their heads, when snow lies on the hills, when frost has spoiled their mossy beds and crystallized their rills? Beneath the moon they cannot trip and circles all the plain, and draughts of dew they cannot sip till green leaves come again. Since more blue diving-bells they plunge beneath the waves, inhabiting the wreathed shells that lie in coral caves. Perhaps in red Vesuvius carousels they maintain, and cheer their little spirits thus till green leaves come again. When they return there will be mirth and music in the air, and fairy wings upon the earth and mischief everywhere. The mage to keep the elves aloof will bar the doors in vain. No keyhole will be fairy-proof when green leaves come again. RUMOURS FROM AN AOLIAN HARP by Henry David Thoreau Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake There is a veil which none hath seen, where foot of man has never been, such as here lives with toil and strife and anxious and a sinful life. There every virtue has its birth. There it descends upon the earth, and thither every deed returns, which in the generous bosom burns. There love is warm, and youth is young, and poetry is yet unsung. For virtue still adventures there, and freely breathes her native air. And ever, if you harken well, you still may hear its vesper bell, and tread of high-sold men go by, their thoughts conversing with the sky. SIGN AMORE LADYS Men were deceivers ever, one foot in sea, and one on shore, to one thing constant, never. Then sign out so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into hey, nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no more, or dumps so dull and heavy. The fraud of men was ever so, since summer first was levy. Then sign out so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into hey, nonny, nonny. And if poem, this recording is in the public domain. THE SOUL OF THE WORLD by Ernest Crosby Red for Libervox.org by Clarica The soul of the world is abroad to-night, not in yawn-silvery amalgam of moon-beam and ocean, nor in the pink heat-lightning tremulous on the horizon, not in the embrace of yonder pair of lovers either, heart beating to heart in the shadow of the fishing smack drawn up on the beach. All that shall I call it illusion, nay, but at best it is a pale reflection of the truth. I am not to be put off with symbols, for the soul of the world is itself abroad to-night. I neither see, nor hear, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch it, but faintly I feel it powerfully stirring. I feel it as the blind heaving sea feels the moon bending over it. I feel it as the needle feels the serpentine magnetic current coiling itself about the earth. I open my arms to embrace it as the lovers embrace each other, but my embrace is all-inclusive. My heart beats to heart likewise, but it is to the heart universal, for the soul of the world is abroad to-night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sweden Low by Alfred Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Sweden Low, Sweden Low, Wind of the Western Sea, Low, Low, Breathe and Blow, Wind of the Western Sea, Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me, while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon. Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon. Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, under the silver moon. Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Then I would love you by Joseph C. Mon Cotter, Jr. Read for LibriVox.org by Squid Vashlakova. Then I would love you were you to come with your clear gray eyes as calmly placid as in summer's heat at noontide lie the sultry skies with your dark brown hair as smoothly quiet as the leaves when stirs no cooling breath of air, and short of smile your full red lips pressed firmly close as the chalice bud before the nectar quaffing bee air sips. I would not know you. I would not love you. But should you come with your love bright eyes dancing gaily as on summer's eve the stars are down the western skies with your hair wind caught and circled round your shining face in fashion which no hand air wrought and your full red lips poised saucily as the slender moon midst and hundred stars and held aloof in daring taunt to me. Then I would know you. Then I would love you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Avaya Linist by Francis William Bordeon. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. The lark above our heads doth know a heaven we see not here below. She sees it, and for joy she sings, then falls with ineffectual wings. A soaring soul faint not, nor tire. Which heaven attained reveals a higher. Thy thought is of thy failure. We list raptured and thank God for thee.