 I would be one with the dark, dark earth, follow the plow with the yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn, walking the rose with the plumes overhead. I would be one with the lavish earth, eating the bee-stung apples red, walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night, where sparkling skies and the lightning wed, walking on with the vicious wind, by roads once even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth, on to the end, till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with the dark, dark earth, with the the sacred earth, on to the end, till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things, finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars from my pillow there in the gloom, oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their a flowery chain, squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sun-burned dais, when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Veitcha Lindsay Read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark-dark earth, follow the plow with a yokel tread, I would be part of the Indian corn, walking the rose with a plume's oar head. I would be one with a lavish earth, eating the bee's stung apples red, walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night, when sparkling skies and the lightning wed, walking on with a vicious wind, by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth, on to the end, till I sleep but the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me, peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things, finding their lowering thread on said, stars for my pillow there in the gloom, oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisy shall rise through the earth, acorns fall round my breast that bled, children shall weave there a flowery chain, squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the Traveller Heart of me, fruit of my harvest songs long sped, sweet with the life of my sunburn days, when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Rachel Lindsay, read for LibriVox.org by Icy Jumbo. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the stateliest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark, dark earth, follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn, walking the rose with the blooms o'erhead. I would be one with the lavish earth, eating the bee-stung apples red, walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed, walking on with the vicious wind by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth on to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me, peace shall duel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom, oak-roots arching about my head. As like daisies shall rise through the earth, acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain, squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me, fruit of my harvest songs long sped, sweet with the life of my sun-burned dais when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of Poem. The Traveller Heart by Veitchel Lindsay Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Salomey To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth, follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn walking the rows with the plumes or ed. I would be one with the lavish earth, eating the bee-stung apples red, walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night, when sparkling skies and the lightning-wed, walking on with a vicious wind, by roads wince even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth, on to the end till I sleep with the dead, terror shall put no spears through me, peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black fangs finding their lowering threat unsaid, stars for my pillow there in the gloom oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled, children shall weave there a flowery chain squirrels on acorn's hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me, fruit of my harvest song's long sped, sweet with the life of my sunburn days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth, follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the indian corn walking the rose with the plumes o'erhead. I would be one with the lavish earth eating the bee-stung apples red, walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with a dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed, walking on with the vicious wind by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with a sacred earth on to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom, oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisy shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveler heart of me, fruit of my harvest song's longsbed, sweet with the life of my sunburn days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Veitchel Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of internment. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn walking the rose with the plumes or head. I would be one with the lavish earth eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with a dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth on to the end till I sleep with the dead. Tears shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars from my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburned days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn. Walking the rose with the plumes o'er head. I would be one with the lavish earth. Eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night. When sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind. By roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall drill my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things. Finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their a flowery chain. Screws on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburned dais. When the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Rachel Lindsay. Read for LibreVox.org by Joelle Peebles. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn. Walking the rose with the plumes o'er head. I would be one with the lavish earth. Eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night. When sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind. By roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things. Finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast at blood. Children shall weave there a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest song's long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburn dais when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. The Traveller Heart by Waco Lindsay Read for LibriVox.org by Christine To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plough with the yokel thread. I would be part of the Indian corn. Walking the rose with the plumes overhead. I would be one with the lavish earth. Eating the bee-stung apple thread. Walking where lamps walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths to the falls be led. I would be one with the dark bright night. When sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious mind. By roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spares through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit black sinks. Finding their lowering thread unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching above my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breasts at blood. Children shall weave their aflowery chain. Squirrels on acorn-herds be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest song's long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburned dais. When the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Vacheal Lindsey. Red for LibriVox.org by Lucy Burgoyne. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of internment. I would be one with the dark, dark earth. Follow the plough with the yoke or tread. I would be part of the Indian corn. Walking the rose with the plumes or head. I would be one with the lavish earth. Eating the bee-stung apple-spread. Walking where lands walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night. When sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind. By roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spheres through me. Peace shall duel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things. Finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the trouble of heart of me. Fruit of my harbour's songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sun-burned days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Vachelle Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry in Bath on February the 26th 2009. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark, dark earth. Follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn, walking the rose with the plumes overhead. I would be one with the lavish earth, eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills, by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night, when sparkling skies and lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind, by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth, on to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things, finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom, oak- fruits arching about my head. Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller, heart of me. Fruit of my harvest songs longspend. Sweet with the life of my sunburned days, when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Vigil Lindsay. Read for leverbox.org by Mike Venditti. MikeVenditti.com, Canyon City, Colorado. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of internment. I would be one with the dark dark earth, follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn, walking the rose with the plume d'or head. I would be one with the lavish earth, eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths do the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night, when sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking with the vicious wind, by roads wince even dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things. Finding their lowering thread unset. Stars from my pillow, there in the gloom, oak-roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise to the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their a flowery chain, squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruits of the traveller, heart of me. Fruits of my harvest, songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburn days. When the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The traveller, heart by Virgil Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of internment. I would be one with the dark, dark earth. Follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn. Walking the rose with the ploons o'erhead. I would be one with the lavish earth. Eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills. By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind by roads whence even the dogs have led. I would be one with the sacred earth onto the inn till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall dual my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit black things finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breasts that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveller heart of me. Fruit of my harvest song's long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburned dais when sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveller Heart by Veitchel Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Tracy Datlin. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the stately as possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn walking the rose with the plumes o'er head. I would be one with the lavish earth eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind by roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth. On to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things finding their lowering threat unsaid. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom. Oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth. Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveler heart of me. Fruit of my harvest songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburn days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Traveler Heart by Vachelle Lindsey, read for Librebox.org by Trisha G. To a man who maintained that the mausoleum is the statelyest possible manner of interment. I would be one with the dark dark earth. Follow the plow with a yokel tread. I would be part of the indian corn walking the rose with the plumes ore head. I would be one with the lavish earth eating the bee-stung apples red. Walking where lambs walk on the hills by oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark bright night when sparkling skies and the lightning wed. Walking on with the vicious wind by roads once even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth on to the end till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit black things finding their lowering threat on set. Stars for my pillow there in the gloom oak roots arching about my head. Stars like daisies shall rise through the earth acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave their a flowery chain. Squirrels on acorn hearts be fed. Fruit of the traveler heart of me fruit of my harvest songs long sped. Sweet with the life of my sunburned days when the sheaves were ripe and the apples red.