 The house beautiful, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A naked house, a naked moor, a shivering pool before the door, a garden bear of flowers and fruit, and poplars at the garden foot. Such is the place that I live in, bleak without and bare within. Yet shall your ragged moor receive the incomparable pomp of Eve and the cold glories of the dawn behind your shivering trees be drawn, and when the wind from place to place doth the unmoored cloud-gallions chase your guarding gloom and gleam again with leaping sun with glancing rain. Here shall the wizard moon ascend the heavens in the crimson end. Of days declining splendor here the army of the stars appear, the neighbor hollows dry or wet, spring shall with tender flowers beset, and off the morning musor sea larks rising from the broomy lee, and every fairy wheel and thread of cobweb dew be diamond-ed. When daisies go, shall winter time silver the simple grass with rime, autumn will cross enchant the pool, and make the cart-ruts beautiful, and when snow bright the moor expands, how shall your children clap their hands to make this earth our hermitage, a cheerful and a changeful plage, God's bright and intricate device of days and seasons doth suffice. Robert Louis Stevenson End of Poem The old love, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this Libravox recording is in the public domain. Out of my door I step into the country all her sent and do, nor travel there by a hard road, dusty and far from my abode. The country washes to my door, green miles on miles, in soft uproar, the thunder of the woods and thin the backwash of green surf again. Beyond the fever-few and stalks are gilder rose and holly hawks, outside my trellis porch a tree of lilac frames, a sky for me, a stretch of primrose and pale green, to hold a tender hesper in, hesper that by the moon makes pale, her silver keel and silver sail. The country silence wraps me quite, silence and song and pure delight, the country beckons all the day, smiling and but a step away. This is that country seen across, how many a league of love and loss, prayed for and long for and as far as fountains in the desert are. This is that country at my door, whose fragrant airs run on before, and call me when the first birds stir in the green wood to walk with her. Catherine Tynan End of poem Early morn, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When I did wake this morn from sleep, it seemed I heard birds in a dream. Then I arose to take the air, the lovely air that made birds scream, just as a green hill launched the ship of gold to take its first clear dip, and it began its journey then, as I came forth to take the air. The timid stars had vanquished quite, the moon was dying with a stare. Horses and kind and sheep were seen, as still as pictures in fields green. It seemed as though I had surprised and trespassed in a golden world, that should have passed when men still slept, the joyful birds, the ship of gold. The horse kind and sheep did seem, as they would vanish for a dream. William H. Davies End of poem The hill pines were sighing, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The hill pines were sighing, or cast and chill was the day, a mist in the valley lying, blotted the pleasant may. But deep in the glen's bosom, summer slept in the fire, of the odorous gorse blossom, and the hot scent of the briar, a rippled cuckoo clamored, and out of the corpse the stroke, of the iron axe that hammered the iron heart of the oak, anon a sound appalling, as a hundred years of pride, crashed in the silence falling, and the shadowy pine trees sighed. The hill pines were sighing, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When skies are blue and days are bright, a kitchen gardens my delight, set round with rows of decent box, and blowsy girls of hollyhocks, before the lark his lords hath done, and ear the corn-crakes southward gone, before the thrush good night hath said, and the young summers put to bed. The current bush's spicy smell, homely and honest, likes me well. The while on strawberries I feast, and raspberries the sun hath kissed, beans all a-blowing by a row of hives that grate with honey-go, with mignonette and peas to yield, the plundering bee his honey-field, sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage, and the delicious mint and sage, rosemary marjoram and rue, and time to scent the winter through. Here are small apples growing round, and apricots all golden-gowned, and plums that pleasantly will flush, and show their bush a burning bush, cherries in nets against the wall, where master thrush his metigrill, sings and makes oath a churl is he who grudges cherries for a fee. Lavender, sweet briar, oris, here shall beauty make her palm a-dir, her sweet balls four to lay in clothes, that wrap her as the leaves the rose, take roses red and lilies white, a kitchen garden's my delight, its gilly flowers and flocks and clothes, and its tall coat of iris'd doves. Catherine Tynan End of Poem There is a hill, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this labour-vox recording is in the public domain. There is a hill beside the silver Thames, shady with birch and beech and odorous pine, and brilliant underfoot with thousand gems, steeply the thickets to his floods decline, straight trees in every place, their thick tops interlace, and pendant branches trail their foliage fine upon his watery face. Swift from the sweltering pastureage he flows, his stream alert to seek the pleasant shade, pictures his gentle purpose as he goes, straight to the caverned pool his toil has made, his winter floods lay bare, the stout roots in the air, his summer streams are cool when they have played, among their fibrous hair, a rushy island guards the sacred bower, and hides it from the meadow, where in peace the lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, robbing the golden market of the bees, and laden barges float by banks of myosote, and scented flag and golden flower delies, delay the loitering boat, and on this side the island where the pool, eddies away our tangled mass on mass, the water weeds that net the fishes cool, and scarce allow a narrow stream to pass, where spreading crowfoot Mars, the drowning net new fars, waving the tassels of her silken grass below her silver stars, but in the purple pool there nothing grows, not the white water lily spout with gold, though best she loves the hollows and well-nose, on quiet streams her broad shields too unfold, yet should her roots but try, within these deeps to lie, not her long-reaching stalk could ever hold, her wax and head so high, sometimes an angler comes and drops his hook, within its hidden depths and ganks a tree, leaning his rod reads in some pleasant book, forgetting soon his pride of fishery, and dreams, or falls asleep, while curious fishes peep, about his nibbled bait, or scornfully dart off, and rise, and leap, and sometimes a slow figure, beneath the trees, in ancient fashion smock with tottering care, upon a staff propped his weary knees, may by the pathway of the forest fare, as from a buried day across the combined will stray, some perishing mute shadow and unaware, he passeth on his way, else he that wishes solitude is safe, whether he bathe at morning in the stream, or lead his love there when the hot hours shape, the meadows busy with a blurring steam, or watch as fades the light, the gibbious moon grow bright, until her magic rays dance in a dream, and glorify the night, where is this bower beside the silver Thames, O pool and flowery thickets hear my vow, O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, no sharer of my secret I allow, lest err I come the while, strange feet your shades defile, or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow within your guardian isle, Robert Bridges, end of poem, Bablock Hythe, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In the time of wild roses, as up Thames we traveled, where midwater weeds ravelled the lily uncloses, to his old shores the river, a new song was singing, and young shoots were springing on old roots forever, dog daisies were dancing, and flags flamed in custer, on the dark stream a luster, now blurred and now glancing, a tall read down weighing, the sedge wobbler fluttered, one sweet note he uttered, then left its soft swaying, by the banks sandy hollow my dipped oars went beating, and past our bows fleeting, blue-backed shone the swallow, high woods herein haunted, rose changed as we rounded, old hills greenly mounded, to meadows enchanted, a dream ever molded, a fresh for our wonder, still opening as under for the stream many folded, till sunset was rimming, the west with pale flushes, behind the black rushes the last light was dimming, and the lonely stream hiding, shy birds grew more lonely, and with us was only the noise of our gliding, in cloud of gray weather the evening ore darkened, in the stillness we hearkened our hearts sang together. Lawrence Binyon End of Poem Rowers chant poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Row till the land dipped neath the sea from view, row till a land peep up, a home for you, row till the mast sing songs, welcome and sweet, row till the waves outstripped give up deadbeat, row till the sea nymphs rise, to ask you why, rowing you tarry not, to hear them sigh, row till the stars grow bright, like certain eyes, row till the noon be high, as hopes you prize, row till you harbor in all longing's port, row till you find all things for which you sought. T. Sturge More End of Poem Farewell, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Not soon shall I forget a sheet of golden water cold and sweet, the young moon with her head in veils, of silver and the nightingales, a wane of hay came up the lane, O fields I shall not walk again, and trees I shall not see, so still, against a sky of daffodil, fields where my happy heart had rest, and where my heart was heaviest, I shall remember them at peace, drenched in moon-silver like a fleece, the golden water sweet and cold, the moon of silver and of gold, the dew upon the gray grass-spears, I shall remember them with tears, Catherine Tynan, End of Poem, a ship, an isle, a sickle moon, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A ship, an isle, a sickle moon, with few but with how splendid stars, the mirrors of the sea are strewn between their silver bars, an isle beside an isle she lay, the pale ship anchored in the bay, while in the young moon's port of gold a starship, as the mirrors told, put forth its great and lonely light to the unreflecting ocean night, and still a ship upon her seas, the isle and the island cypresses, went sailing on without the gale, and still their move the moon so pale, a crescent ship without a sail, James Elroy Flecker, End of Poem, nod, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Softly along the road of evening, in a twilight dim with rose, wrinkled with age and drenched with dew, old nod, the shepherd goes, his drowsy flock streams on before him, their fleeces charged with gold, to where the sun's last beam leans low, on nod the shepherds fold, the hedge is quick and green with briar, from their sand the conies creep, and all the birds that fly in heaven flock singing home to sleep, his lambs outnumber a noons roses, yet when night's shadows fall, his blind old sheepdog slumber soon misses not one of all, his are the quiet steeps of dreamland, the waters of no more pain, his ram spells rings neath an arc of stars, rest, rest, and rest again, Walter de La Mer, End of Poem, Chines, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Brief on a flying night, from the shaken tower, a flock of bells takes flight, and go with the hour, like birds from the coat to the gales, abrupt a hark, a fleet of bells set sails, and go to the dark, sudden the cold air's swing, alone allowed, a verse of bells takes wing, and flies with the cloud, Alice Maynell, End of Poem, Spring goeth all in white, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Spring goeth all in white, crowned with milk white May, in fleecy flocks of light, or heaven the white clouds stray, white butterflies in the air, white daisies prank the ground, the cherry and hoary pear, scatter their snow around, Robert Bridges, End of Poem, St. Valentine's Day, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Today, all day, I rode upon the down, with hounds and horsemen, a brave company, on this side, in its glory lay the sea, on that the Sussex wailed, a sea a brown, the wind was light and brightly the sun shone, and still we galloped on from gorse to gorse, and once when chet, a thrush sang, and my horse, pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown, I knew the spring was come, I knew it even, better than all by this than through my chase, in bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven, I seem to see and follow still your face, your face my quarry was, for it I rode, my horse a thing of wings, myself a god, Wilford Blunt, End of Poem, a day in Sussex, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The dove did lend me wings, I fled away, from the loud world which long had troubled me, of lightly did I flee when hoidon may, threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn tree, I left the dusty high road and my way, was through deep meadows shut with copses fair, a choir of thrushes poured its round delay, from every hedge and every thicket there. Mild, moon face kind, looked on, where in the grass, all heap with flowers I lay, from noon till eve, and hairs unwitting close to me did pass, and still the bird sang, and I could not grieve, oh what a blessed thing that evening was, peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive, a soul to joy or lull a heart to peace, it glimmers yet across whole years like these. Wilford Blunt, End of Poem, Ode in May, Poems of Today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Let me go forth and share the overflowing sun with one wise friend, or one better than wise, being fair, where the puet wheels and dips on heights of bracken and ling, and earth, unto her leaflet tips, tingles with the spring. What is so sweet and dear, as a prosperous morn in May, the confident prime of the day, and the dauntless youth of the year, when nothing that asks for bliss, asking all right is denied, and half of the world a bridegroom is, and half of the world a bride, the song of mingling flows, grave, ceremonial, pure, as once from lips that endure, the cosmic deskant rose. When the temporal lord of life, going his golden way, had taken a wondrous maid to wife, that long had said him nay, for of old the sun, our sire, came wooing the mother of men. Earth that was virginal then, vestal fire to his fire, silent her bosom and coy, but the strong God sued and pressed, and born of their starry, nuptial joy, are that drunk of her breast. And the triumph of him that begot, and the travail of her that bore, behold they are evermore, as warp and weft in our lot. We are children of splendor and flame, of shuddering also and tears, magnificent out of the dust we came, and abject from the spheres. O bright irresistible lord, we are fruit of earth's womb each one, and fruit of thy loins, O son, whence first was the seed outpoured. To thee as our father we bow, forbidden thy father to see, who is older and greater than thou, as thou, art greater and older than we. Thou art but as a word of his speech, thou art but as a wave of his hand, thou art brief as a glitter of sand, twix tide and tide on his speech, thou art less than a spark of his fire, or a moment's mood of his soul, thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir that chant the chant of the hall. William Watson. End of Poem The Scarecrow. Poems of Today An Anthology by Various Authors This Thebervox Recording is in the Public Domain. All winter through I bow my head, beneath the driving rain, the north wind powders me with snow, and blows me black again. At midnight, neath a maze of stars, I flame with glittering rhyme, and stand above the stubble stiff as mail at morning prime. But when that child, called spring and all, his host of children come, scattering their buds and dew upon these acres of my home, some rapture in my rags awaits. I lift void eyes and scan, the skies for crows, those ravning foes, of my strange master, man. I watch him striding, lank behind, his clashing team, and know, soon will that wheat swish body high, where once lay sterile snow. Soon I shall gaze across a sea of sun-begotten grain, which my unflinching watch has sealed, for harvest once again. Walter de La Mer End of Poem The Vagabond Poems of Today An Anthology by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Give to me the life I love. Let the love go by me. Give the jolly heaven above, and the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush, with stars to see. Bread I dip in the river. There's the life for a man like me. There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late. Let what will be o'er me. Give the face of earth around, and the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, nor a friend to know me. All I seek, the heaven above, and the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me, where a field I linger, silencing the bird on tree, biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field, warm the fireside haven. Not to autumn will I yield, not to winter even. Let the blow fall soon or late. Let what will be o'er me. Give the face of earth around, and the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, nor a friend to know me. All I ask, the heaven above, and the road below me. Tuxbury Road, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This Thieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where. Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why. Through the gray light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air. Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink. Where the hair-bell grows, and the gorse, and the fox-glove's purple and white. Where the shy eye-delicate deer come down in a troop to drink. When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth. Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words. And the blessed green calmly meadows are all a ripple with mirth, at the noise of the lambs at play, and the deer while cry of the birds. John Macefield End of Poem To a lady seen from the train. Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. O, why do you walk through the fields in gloves, missing so much and so much. O, fat white woman whom nobody loves. Why do you walk through the fields in gloves? When the grass is soft as the breast of doves, and shivering sweet to the touch. O, why do you walk through the fields in gloves, missing so much and so much. Francis Cornford End of Poem I will make you britches, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. I will make you britches and toys for your delight, of bird song at morning and star shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen and you shall keep your room, where white flows the river and bright blows the broom. And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white, in rainfall at morning and dune fall at night. And this shall be for music when no one else is near. The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear, that only I remember, that only you admire, of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. Robert Louis Stevenson End of Poem Juggling Jerry Poems of Today An anthology by various authors. This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes, by the old hedge side will halt a stage. It's nigh my last above the daisies, my next leaf will be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl, and it's no use crying. Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that out juggles all's been spying, long to have me, and he has me now. We've traveled times to this old common, often we've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman, you and I, and the gray old horse. Races and fares and royal occasions found us coming to your call. Now they'll miss us at our stations. There's a juggler out juggles all. Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly. Over the duck pond the willow shakes. Easy to think that grieving's folly, when the hands firm as driven stakes. A when were strong and braced and mingful. Life saw sweet fiddle, but were a batch. Born to become the great juggler's handful, balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. Here's were the lads of the village cricket. I was a lad not wide from here. Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket? Like an old world these days appear. Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched alehouse. I know them. They are old friends of my halts and seam. Somehow, as if kind, thanks I owe them. Juggling doesn't hinder the heart's esteem. Juggling no sin, for we must have victual. Nature allows us to bait for the food. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little, but to increase it hard jugglings the roll. You that are sneering at my profession, haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister in one session. Juggles more games than my sins count. I've murdered insects with mock thunder. Conscience for that in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder. That's my business, and there's my tale. Fashion and rank, I'll praise the Professor. A, and I've had my smile from the Queen. Bravo, Jerry, she meant, God bless her. Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I've studied men from my topsy-turvy. Close, and I reckon rather true. Some are fine fellows, some right scurvy. Most a dash between the two. But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me think more kindly of the race. And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me when the great juggler I must face. We two were married, due and legal. Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord, I could then jump like an eagle. You danced bright as a bit, oh, the sun. Birds in a maybush we were, right, Mary? All night we kissed, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of juggling, Jerry. Now from his old girl he's juggled away. It's past Parsons to console us? No, nor no doctor fetched for me. I can die without my bolus. Two of a trade, last, never agree. Parsons and doctor don't, they love rarely. Fighting the devil in another man's fields. Stand up yourself and match him fairly. Then see how the rascal yields. I, last, have lived, no gypsy, flaunting. Finery while his poor helpmate drubs. Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting. You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen. Many a marquee would hail you cook. Palaces you could have ruled and roam rich in. But your old Jerry, you never forestook. Hand up the churper, right ale winks in it. Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draw made me light as a linnet, cheer up the Lord must have his lease. Maybe for none see in that black hollow. It's just a place where we're held in pond. And when the great juggler makes as to swallow is just the sword trick I ain't quite gone. Yonder came smells of the gorse so nutty. Gold like and warm, it's the prime of May. Better than mortar, brick and putty. Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound now I feel it. All the old heath smells ain't it strange. There's the world laughing as if to conceal it. But he's by us juggling the change. I mind it well by the sea beach lying. Once is long gone when two gulls we beheld. Which as the moon got up were flying. Down a big wave that spart and swelled. Crack went a gun, one fell, the second. Wheeled round him twice and was off for new luck. There in the dark her white wing beckoned. Drop me a kiss, I'm the bird dead struck. George Meredith. End of poem. Requiem. Palms of Today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Under the wide and starry sky. Take the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die. And I laid me down with a will. This be the first you grave for me. Here he lies where he longed to be. Home is a sailor, home from sea. And the hunter home from the hill. Robert Louis Stevenson. End of poem. Eight Dead Harvest. Palms of Today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In Kensington Gardens. Along the graceless grass of town. They raked the rows of red and brown. Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay. Delicate, touched with gold and gray. Raked long ago and far away. A narrow silence in the park. Between the lights a narrow dark. One street rolls on the north and one. Buffled upon the south doth run. Amid the mist the work is done. A futile crop for it the fire. Smolders and for a stack a pyre. So go the town's lives on. The breeze, even as the sheddings of the trees. Boozom nor barn is filled with these. Alice Maynell. End of poem. The Little Dancers. Palms of Today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Lonely, save for a few faint stars. The sky, dreams, and lonely below the little street. Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters, this soft retreat. And all is dark, save where come flooding rays. From a tavern window, there, to the brisk measure. Of an organ that down in an alley, merrily plays. Two children, all alone, and no one by. Holding their tattered frocks through an airy maze. Of motion, lightly threaded, with nimble feet. Dance sedately. Dance sedately. Face to face, they gaze. Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure. Lawrence Binion. End of poem. London Snow. Palms of Today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When men were all asleep, the snow came flying. In large white flakes falling on the city brown. Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying. Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town. Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing. Lazily and incessantly floating down and down. Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing. Hiding difference, making unevenness even. Into angles and crevices slowly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven. It lay in the depth of its uncompacted likeness. The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven. And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness. Of the winter dawning, the strange, unheavenly glare. The eye marveled, marveled at the dazzling whiteness. The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air. No sound a wheel rumbling, nor a foot falling. And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling. They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze. Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing. Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees. Or peering up from under the white mossed wonder. Oh look at the trees! they cried. Oh look at the trees! With lessen load, a few carts creak and blunder. Following along the white deserted way. A country company long dispersed us under. When now already the sun in pale display. Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below. His sparkling beams and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow. And trains of somber men, past tale of number. Tread long brown paths as toward their toil they go. But even for them a while no cares encumber. Their minds diverted, the daily word is unspoken. The daily thoughts of labor and sorrow slumber. At the sight of the beauty that greets them. For the charm they have broken. Robert Bridges End of poem The road menders, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. How solitary gleams the laplet street. Waiting the far off morn. How softly from the unresting city blows. The murmur borne down this deserted way. Dim loiter's past home with stealthy feet. Now only, sudden at their interval. The lofty chimes awaken and let fall. Deep thrills of ordered sound. Subsiding echoes gradually drowned. In a great stillness that creeps up around. And darkly grows, profounder over all. Like a strong frost hushing a stormy day. But who is this, that by the brassier red. Encamped in his rude hut. With many a sack about his shoulder spread. Watches with eyes unshut. The burning brassier flushes his old face. Illumining the old thoughts in his eyes. Surely the night doth to her secrecies. Amid him and the watching stars attune. To their high patience, who so lightly seems. To bear the weight of many a thousand dreams. Dark hosts around him sleeping, numberless. He surely hath unbuilt all walls of thought. To reach an air-wide wisdom past access. Of us, who labour in the noisy noon. The noon that knows him not. For though at last the gloom slowly retreats. And swiftly, like an army comes the day. All bright and loud through the awakened streets. Sending a cheerful hum. And he has stolen away. Now with the morning shining round them, come. Young men and strip their coats. And lose the shirts about their throats. And lightly up their ponderous hammers lift. Each in his turn descending swift. With triple strokes that answer and begin. Dooley and quiver in repeated change. Marrying the eager echoes that weave in. A music clear and strange. But pausing soon, each lays his hammer down. And deeply breathing bears his chest. Stallord and Brown to the sunny airs. Laughing one to another. Limber hand. On limber hip flushed in a group they stand. And now untired renew their ringing toil. The sun stands high and ever afresh throng. Comes murmuring but that eddying turmoil. Leaves many a loiterer, prosperous or unfed. On easy or unhappy ways. At idle gaze. Charmed in the sunshine and the rhythm enthralling. As of unwearyed fates for ever young. That on the anvil of necessity. From measureless desire and quivering fear. With musical sure lifting and downfalling. Of arm and hammer driven perpetually. Beat out in obscure span. The fiery destiny of man. Lawrence Binion. End of poem. Street lanterns. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Country roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London town. Never a handsome dare come nigh. Never a cart goes rolling by. An unwanted silence steals. In between the turning wheels. Quickly ends the autumn day. And the workman goes his way. Leaving midst the traffic brood. One small aisle of solitude. Lit throughout the lengthy night. By the little lantern's light. Jewels of the dark have we. Brighter than the rustic's bee. Over the dull earth are thrown. Topads and the ruby stone. Mary E. Coleridge. End of poem. O summer sum. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O summer sun. O moving trees. O cheerful human noise. O busy glittering street. What hour shall fate in all the future find? O what delights ever to equal these. Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, Only to be alive and feel that life is sweet. Lawrence Pinyin. End of poem. London. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A thwart the sky. A lowly sigh. From west to east. The sweet wind carried. The sun stood still on Primrose Hill. His light in all the city tarried. The clouds on viewless columns bloomed. Like smoldering lilies unconsumed. O sweetheart sea, how shadowy. Of some occult magicians rearing. Or swung in space of heaven's grace. Dissolving dimly reappearing. A float upon ethereal tides. St. Paul's above the city rides. A rumour broke through the thin smoke. In wreathing abbey, tower and palace. The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares. The million-peopleed lanes and alleys. An ever-embuttering prisoned storm. The heart of London beating warm. John Davidson. End of poem. November blue. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The golden tint of the electric light seems to give a complementary colour to the air in the early evening. Essay on London. O heavenly colour, London town, has blurred it from her skies, and hooded in an earthly brown, on heaven the city lies. No longer standard like this hue above the broad road flies, nor does the narrow street the blue, where slender pen and wise. But when the golden silver lamps colour the London dew, and misted by the winter dance, the shops shine bright and new. Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, it dies the wide air through. A mimic sky about their feet, the throng go crowned with blue. Alice Maynell. End of poem. Philomil in London. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Not within a granite pass, dim with flowers and soft with grass, nay but doubly trebly sweet, in a poplard London street, while below my windows go, noiseless barges to and fro, through the nights calm deep. Ah, what breaks the bonds of sleep! No steps on the pavement fall, soundless swings the dark canal, from a church tower out of sight, clangs the central hour of night. Hark! the Dorian nightingale! Pan's voice melted to a wail, such another bird, attic terrace, never heard. Hung above the gloom and strain, London's squalid cope of pain. Pure as starlight, bold as love, honouring our scant, popular grove, that most heavenly voice of earth, thrills and passion, grief or mirth, labs are poisoned air, lice best song bath, crystal fair. While the starry minstrel sings, little matters what he brings. Be it sorrow, be it pain, let him sing and sing again. Till with dawn, poor souls rejoice, wakening once to hear his voice. Urr afar he flies, bound for pure woods and skies. Edmund Goss End of Poem Annas Mirabilis 1902 Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Daylight was down and up the cool, bare heaven, the moon, or roof and elm. Daughter of dusk, most wonderful, went mounting to her realm, and night was only half begun. Round Edward Square in Kensington, a sabbath calm possessed her face, and even glow her bosom filled, high in her solitary place. The huntress's heart was stilled. With bow and arrows all lay down, she stood and looked on London town. Nay, how can sight of us give rest? To that far-traveled heart, or draw, the musings of that tranquil breast, I thought and gazing saw, far up above me, high, oh, high, from south to north, a heron fly. Oh, swiftly answered yonder flew, the wings of freedom end of hope. Little of London town, he knew, the far horizon was his scope. High up he sails, and sees beneath, the glimmering ponds of Hampstead heath. Hinden and far out afield, low-water meads are in his ken, and lonely pools by harrow-willed, and solitudes unloved of men. Where he, his fissures, spear dips down, little he knows of London town, so small with all its miles of sin, is London too the gray-winged bird, a cockatoo called at Lincoln's inn. Last April in Soho was heard, the missile thrush with throat of glee, and nightingales at Battersea. Lawrence Houseman End of poem Fleet Street, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I never see the newsboys run amid the whirling street, with swift untiring feet, to cry the latest venture done, but I expect one day to hear, then cry the crack of doom. And risings from the tomb, with great archangel Michael near, and see them running from the fleet, as messengers of God, with heaven's tidings shod, about their brave unwirried feet. Shane Leslie End of poem In the meadows at Mantua, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. But to have lane upon the grass, one perfect day, one perfect hour, beholding all things mortal pass, into the quiet of green grass, but to have lane and love the sun, under the shadow of the trees, to have been found in unison, once only with the blessed sun. Ah, in these flaring London nights, where midnight withers into morn, how quiet a rebuke it writes, across the sky of London nights, upon the grass at Mantua, these London nights were all forgot. They wake from me again, but ah, the meadow grass at Mantua. Arthur Simons End of poem Leisure, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. What is this life, if, full of care? We have no time to stand and stare, no time to stand beneath the boughs, and stare as long as sheep or cows, no time to see when woods we pass, where squirrels hide their nuts in grass, no time to see in broad daylight, streams full of stars, like skies at night, no time to turn at beauty's glance, and watch her feet how they can dance, no time to wait till her mouth can, enrich that smile her eyes begin. A poor life this, if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. William H. Davies End of poem Lying in the grass, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Between two russet puffs of summer grass, I watched the world through hot air as through glass, and by my face sweet lights and colors pass. Before me dark against the fading sky, I watched three moors mowing as I lie. With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, rich glowing color on bare throat and head. My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead. And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony. A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I. The music of the sighs that glide and leap, the young men whistling as their great arms sweep, and all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep. The weary butterflies that droop their wings, the dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, and all the lassitude of happy things, is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood that gushes through my veins a languid flood, and feeds my spirit as the sap abud. Behind the moors on the amber air, a dark green beach wood rises still and fair, a white path winding up it like a stair, and see that girl with picture on her head, and clean white apron on her gown of red. Her even song of love is but half said. She waits the youngest moor. Now he goes. Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush rose. They climb up where the deepest shadows close. But though they pass and vanish, I am there. I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair. Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer. Ah, now the rosy children come to play, and romp and struggle with the new moan hay. Their clear high voices sound from far away. They know so little why the world is sad. They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad. Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad. I long to go and play among them there, unseen like wind, to take them by the hair, and gently make their rosy cheeks more fair. The happy children fall of frank surprise, and sudden whims and innocent ecstasies, what God had sparkles from their liquid eyes. No wonder round those urns of mingled clays, that Tuscan potters fashioned in old days, and colored like the torrid earth ablaze, we find the little gods and loves portrayed through ancient forests wandering undismayed, or gathered whispering in some pleasant glade. They knew, as I do now, what keen delight, a strong man feels to watch the tender flight, a little children playing in his sight. I do not hunger for a well-stored mind. I only wish to live my life and find, my heart in unison with all mankind. My life is like the single dewy star, that trembles on the horizon's primrose bar, a microcosm where all things living are, and if among the noiseless grasses death should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth, for I should pass, but all the world would be, full of desire and young delight and glee, and why should men be sad through loss of me? The light is dying in the silver-blue, the young moon shines from her bright window through, the mowers all are gone, and I go too. EDMOND GAUCE IN OF POMM DOWN BY THE SALY GARDENS POMMES OF TODAY AN ANTHOLOGY BY VARIOUS OTHERS THIS SLEEPERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DEMAIN DOWN BY THE SALY GARDENS MY LOVE AND I DID MEET SHE PASSED THE SALY GARDENS WITH LITTLE SNOW WHITE FEET SHE BID ME TAKE LOVE EASY AS THE LEAVES GROW ON THE TREE, BUT I, BEING YOUNG AND FOOLISH, WITH HER WOULD NOT AGREE IN A FIELD BY THE RIVER MY LOVE AND I DID STAND, AND ON MY LEANING SHOLDER SHE LAID HER SNOW WHITE HAND SHE BID ME TAKE LIFE EASY AS THE GRASS GROWS ON THE WEARS, BUT I WAS YOUNG AND FOOLISH, AND NOW AM FULL OF TEARS W. B. Yeats IN OF POMM RENOUSSANCE POMMS OF TODAY AN ANTHOLOGY BY VARIOUS OTHERS THIS SLEEPERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DEMAIN O HAPPY SOUL FORGET THY SELF THIS THAT HAS HAUNTED ALL THE PAST, THAT CONJURED DISAPPOINTMENTS FAST, THAT NEVER COULD LET WELL ALONE, THAT CLIMBING TO ACHIEVEMENTS THRONE, SLIPPED ON THE LAST STEP, THIS THAT WOLVE, DISSATISFACTIONS CLEANING NET, AND RAN THROUGH LIFE LIKE SQUANDERED PELF, THIS THAT TILL NOW HAS BEEN THY SELF, FORGET, O HAPPY SOUL, FORGET. IF EVER THOUSD DIST AUT COMMENTS, SETS FORTH IN SPRINGTIME WOODS TO ROVE, OR WHEN THE SUN IN JULY THROW, DID HIS PLUNGE INTO CALM BAY OF OCEAN, WITH FINE FOLICITY IN MOTION, OR HAVING CLIMBED SOME HIGH HILLS BROW, THEY TOLD BEHIND THEE LIKE THE NIGHT, STOODEST IN THE CHILDON'S AIR INTENSE, COMMENTS THUS NOW, THUS RECOMMENTS, TAKE TO THE FUTURE AS TO LIGHT, NOT AS A BAETHER ON THE SHORE, STRIPS OF HIS CLOSE GLAD SOUL STRIP THOUGH, HE THROWS THEM OFF BUT FOLDS THEM NOW, ALTHOUGH HE FOR THE BILLOWS YERNS, TO WAY THEM DOWN WITH STONES HE TURNS, TO MARK THE SPOT HE SCANS THE SHORE, OF HIS RETURN HE THINKS BEFORE, DO THOUGH FORGET. All that, until this joy franchise thee, Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee, For gladness, henceforth, without let, Be thou a body, naked, fair, And be thy kingdom all the air, Which the noon fills with light, And be thine actions every one, Like to a dawn or set a sun, Robed in an ample glory's peace, Since thou hast tasted this, great glee, Whose virtue prophecies in thee, That wrong is wholly doomed, Is doomed and bound to cease. T. STURGE MORE N. OF POMPE TO WILL H. LOW POMPE'S OF TODAY, AN ENTHOLOGY BY VARIOUS AUTHORS, THIS LIBERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DEMANE. Youth now flees on feather-foot, Fate and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of gods and still, Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows flits a dream, Flits but shows a smiling face, Flees but with, so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must follow, all must roam. This is unborn beauty, she, Now in air floats high and free, Takes a sun and breaks the blue, Late with stooping pinion flu, Raking hedger-grove trees and wet, Her wing in silver streams and set, Shining foot on temple-roof, Now again she flies aloof, Coasting mountain clouds and kissed, By the evening's emesis, In wet wood and merry lane, Still we pant and pound in vain, Still with leaden foot we chase, Waning pinion fainting face, Still with gray hair we stumble on, Till behold the vision gone, Where hath fleeting beauty led, To the doorway of the dead. Life is over, life was gay, We have come the primrose way. Robert Louis Stevenson. End of Poem Godimus Igatior Poems of Today An anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Come, no more of grief and dying, Sing the time to swiftly flying, Just an hour, use in flower, Give me roses to remember, In the shadow of December, Fee on steeds with leaden paces, Winds shall bear us on our races, Speed oh speed, wind my steed, Beat the lightning for your master, Yet my fancy shall fly faster. Give me music, give me rapture, Youth that's fled, can none recapture, Not with thought, wisdom's bought, Out on pride and scorn and sadness, Give me laughter, give me gladness, Sweetest earth I love and love thee, Seize about thee, skies above thee, Sun and storms, hues and forms, Of the clouds with floating shadows, On thy mountains and thy meadows, Earth there's none that can enslave thee, Not thy lords, It is that have thee, not for gold, Art thou sold, But thy lovers at their pleasure, Take thy beauty and thy treasure, While sweet fancies meet me singing, While the April blood is springing, In my breast while adjust, And my youth thou yet must leave me, Fortune, tis not thou canst grieve me, When at length the grasses cover, Me the world's unweary lover, If regret haunt me yet, It shall be for joys untasted, Nature lint and folly wasted, Youth and jests and summer weather, Goods that kings and clowns together, Waste or hues as they choose, These the best we miss pursuing, Sol and shades that mock our wooing, Fainting age will not delay it, When the reckoning comes will pay it, Own our mirth has been worth, All the forfeit light or heavy, Wintery time and fortune levy, Fainting grief will not escape it, What though near so well you ape it, Age and care all must share, All alike must pay hereafter, Some for size and some for laughter, No ye sons of melancholy, To be young and wise is folly, Tis the weak fear to wreck, On this clay of life there fancies, Shaping battles, shaping dances, While ye scorn our names unspoken, Roses dead and garlands broken, O ye wise we arise, Out of failures, dreams, disasters, We arise to be your masters. Margaret L. Woods End of Poem O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees, Poems of today, an anthology by various authors, This Labour Vox recording is in the public domain. O dreamy, gloomy, friendly trees, I came along your narrow track, To bring my gifts unto your knees, And guess did you give back, For when I brought this heart that burns, These thoughts that bitterly repine, And laid them here among the ferns, And the hum of bows divine, Ye vastus breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise, Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the hearts despair, Your darkness on its noise. Herbert Trench End of Poem Idleness, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This Labour Vox recording is in the public domain. O idleness, too fond of me, Be gone, I know and hate thee, Nothing canst thou of pleasure see, In one that so doth rate thee, For empty are both mind and heart, While thou with me dost linger, More profit would to thee impart, A babe that sucks its finger. I know thou hast a better way To spend these hours thou squanderest, Some lad toils in the trough today, Who groans because thou wonderest, A bleeding sheep he douses now, Or wrestles with ramp's terror, Ah, mid the washing's hubbub how, He sighs reproach thine error. He knows and loves thee idleness, For when his sheep are browsing, His open eyes enchant and bless, A mind divinely drowsing, No slave to sheep he wills and sees, From hill lawns the brown tillage, Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, Far town or nearer village, The sea itself, the fishing feet, Wheremore thine idle lovers, Harkening to see mews fine thee, Sweet, like him who hears the plovers, Be gone, those haul their ropes at sea, These plund sheep in Yon River, Free, free, from toil thy friends and me, From idleness deliver, Tea, sturge, more, End of poem, Youth and love, poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside, Passing forever he fares and on either hand, Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, Nestle in orchard bloom, And far on the level land, Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide, Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down, Pleasures assail him, He to his nobler fate, fares, And but waves a hand as he passes on, Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone, Robert Louis Stevenson, End of poem, the precept of silence, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I know you, solitary griefs, Desolate passions, aching hours, I know you, tremulous beliefs, Agenized hopes and ashen flowers, The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces full of fear, Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of place's driller, Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad, I have not spoken of these things, Saved to one man and unto God, Lionel Johnson, End of poem. If this were faith, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. God, if this were enough, That I see things bare to the buff, And up to the buttocks in fire, That I ask, nor hope, nor hire, Not in the husk, nor dawn beyond the dusk, Nor life beyond death, God, if this were faith, Having felt thy wind in my face, Spit sorrow and disgrace, Having seen thine evil doom, In Golgotha and Cartoon, And the brutes, the work of thine hands, Fill with injustice lands, And stain with blood the sea, If still in my veins the glee Of the black night and the sun, And the lost battle run, If an adept, the inquietus list, I still accept, With joy and joy to endure and be withstood, And still to battle and perish For a dream of good, God, if that were enough, If to feel in the ink of the slew, And the sink of the mire, Thanes of glory and fire, Run through and trans- pierce and transpire, And a secret purpose of glory in every part, And the answering glory of battle fill my heart, To thrill with the joy of girded men, To go on forever and fail and go on again, And be mauled to the earth and arise, And contend for the shade of a word And a thing not seen with the eyes, With the half of a broken hope For a pillow at night, That somehow the right is the right, And the smooth shall bloom from the rough, Lord, if that were enough. Robert Louis Stevenson End of Poem There is a breathless hush in the close to night, Ten to make and the match to win, A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in, And it's not for the sake of a ribbon coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote, Play up, play up, and play the game. The sand of the desert is sodden red, Red with the wreck of a square that broke, The gatlings jammed and the kernel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed its banks, And England's far and honor a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks, Play up, play up, and play the game. This is the word that year by year, While in her place the school is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget, This they all with a joyful mind, Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind, Play up, play up, and play the game. Henry Newbolt End of Poem Laugh and Be merry, poems of today, An anthology by various authors. Laugh and Be merry, remember, Better the world with a song, Better the world with a blow In the teeth of a rung. Laugh for the time is brief, A thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong To the old proud pageant of man. Laugh and be merry, remember, in olden time, God made heaven and earth for joy He took in a rhyme, Made them and filled them full With the strong red wine of his mirth, The splendid joy of the stars, The joy of the earth. So we must laugh and drink From the deep blue cup of the sky. Join the jubilant song Of the great stars sweeping by. Laugh and battle, and work, And drink of the wine outpoured, In the dear green earth, The sign of the joy of the Lord. Laugh and be merry together, Like brothers akin. Guesting a while In the rooms of a beautiful inn. Glad till the dancing stops, And the lilt of the music ends. Laugh till the game is played, And be you merry, my friends. John Mayfield, end of poem, Roundabouts and swings, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. It was early last September, nine, To Franklin on sea, And was fair day come to-morrow, And the time was after tea, And I met a painted caravan, A down, a dusty lane, A pharaoh with his wagons Come and jolt and creak and strain, A cherry cove and sumbrent, Bold o' eye and wrinkled up, And beside him on the splash-board Sat a brindled terrier pup, And alert your wise as Solomon, And lean as fiddle strings, Was jogging in the dust Along his roundabouts and swings. Good day, said he, Good day, said I, And ow, you do find things go. And what's the chance, O millions, When you run a traveling show? I find, says he, Things very much, as ow I've always found, For mostly day goes up and down, Or else goes round and round. Says he, the job's the very spit, O what it always were. It's bread and bacon mostly, When the dog don't catch a air. But looking at it broad, And, while it ain't no merchant kings, What's lost upon the roundabouts, We pulls up on the swings. Good luck, says he, Good luck, says I, You've put it past a doubt, And keep that lurcher on the road, The gamekeepers is out. He thumped upon the footboard, And he lumbered on again, To meet a golden sunset down, The owl light in the lane. And the moon she climbed the Azzles, while a nightjar seemed to spin, That Pharaoh's wisdom, or again, Is sooth of lose and win. For up and down and around, Says he, goes all appointed things, And losses on the roundabouts, Means profit on the swings. Patrick are chalmers. End of poem. The lark ascending, Palms of today, An anthology by various authors, This Libravox recording is in the public domain. He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound, Of many links, without a break, In cheer up, whistle, slur, and shake, All intervolved and spreading wide, Like water dimples down a tide, Where ripple, ripple, over curls, And eddy into eddy whirls, A press of hurried notes that run, So fleet they scarce are more than one, Yet changingly the trills repeat, And linger ringing while they fleet. Sweet to the quick, or the ear and ear, To her beyond the handmade ear, Who sits beside our inner springs, To often dry for this he brings, Which seems the very jet of earth, At sight of sun her music smirth, As up he wings the spiral stair, A song of light and pierces air, With fountain ardor, fountain play, To reach the shining tops of day, And drink in everything discerned, An ecstasy to music turned, Impaled by what his happy bill Disperses drinking, showering still, On thinking save that he may give, His voice the outlet there to live, Renewed in endless notes of glee, So thirsty of his voice is he, For all to hear and all to know That he is joy awake aglow, The tumult of the heart to hear, Through pureness filtered crystal clear, And know the pleasure sprinkled bright, By simple singing of delight, Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained, Wrapped ringing on the jet sustained, Without a break, without a fall, Sweet silvery, sheer, lyrical, Perennial quavering up the cord, Like mirrored do's of sunny sward, That trembling into fullness shine, And sparkle-dropping argentine, Such wooing as the ear receives, From zephyr-caught in coric leaves, Of aspens when their chattering net Is flushed to white with shivers wet, And such the water spirits chime On mountain heights in morning's prime, Too freshly sweet to seem excess, To animate to need a stress, But wider over many heads The starry voice ascending spreads, Awakening as it waxes thin, The best in us to him again, And every face to watch him raised, Puts on the light of children praised, So rich are human pleasure-ripes, When sweetness on sincereness pipes, Though not be promised from the seas, But only a soft ruffling breeze, Sweet glittering on a still content, Serenity in ravishment, For singing till his heaven fills, Tiss love of earth that he instills, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes, The woods and brooks, the sheep and kind, He is the hills, the human line, The meadows green, the follows brown, The dreams of labor in the town, He sings the sap, the quickened veins, The wedding song of sun and rains, He is the dance of children, thanks Of sour's shout of Primrose banks, And eye of violets while they breathe, All these the circling song will breathe, And you shall hear the herb and tree, The better heart of men shall see, Shall feel celestially as long, As you crave nothing save the song, Was never voice of ours could say, Or in most in the sweetest way, Like yonder voice aloft and link, All hearers in the song they drink, Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, Our passion is too full in flood, We want the key of his wild note Of truthful in a tuneful throat, The song seraphilically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the sons, The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice, Forgiving their one spirit voice. Yet men have we whom we revere, Now names and men still housing here, Whose lies by many a battle-dint, Defaced and grinding wheels on flint, Yield substance, though they sing not sweet, For song our highest heaven to greet, Whom heavenly singing gives us new, And fears them brilliant in our blue, From firmest base to farthest leap, Because their love of earth is deep, And they are warriors in accord, With life to serve and pass reward, So touching purist and so heard In the brain's reflex of you bird, Wherefore their soul in me are mine, Through self-forgetfulness divine, In them that song aloft maintains To fill the sky and thrill the plains, With showering drawn from human stores, As he to silence nearer soars, Extends the world at wings and dome, More spacious making more our home, Till lost on aerial rings in light, And then the fancy sings. George Meredith End of Poem Into the twilight, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Outworn heart, in a time outworn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right, Laugh heart again in the gray twilight, Sigh heart again in the dew of the mourn. Your mother ire is always young, Do ever shining and twilight gray, Though hope fall from you and love decay, Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue, Come heart, where hill is heaped upon hill, For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood, And river and stream work out their will, And God stands winding his lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight, And love is less kind than the gray twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the mourn. W. B. Yates End of Poem By a buyer's side, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This is a sacred city built of marvelous earth. Life was lived nobly here to give such beauty birth. Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand. Death is so blind and dumb death does not understand. Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs glory. Death makes justice a dream and strength a traveller's story. Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky. Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die. John Macefield End of Poem Tis but a week, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Tis but a week since down the Glen, The trampling horses came, Half a hundred fighting men. With all their spears aflame, They laughed and clattered as they went, And round about their way, The blackbirds sang with one consent, In the green leaves of May. Never again shall I see them pass, They'll come victorious never, Their spears are withered all as grass, Their laughter's laid forever. And where they clattered as they went, And where their hearts were gay, The blackbirds sang with one consent, In the green leaves of May. Gerald Gold End of Poem I love all beautyous things, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I love all beautyous things, I seek and adore them, God hath no better praise, And man in his hasty days Is honoured for them. I too will something make, And joy in the making, Although tomorrow it seem, Like the empty words of a dream, Remembered on waking Robert Bridges End of Poem All flesh, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I do not need the skies, Pump, when I would be wise, For pleasant's, nor to use, Heaven's champagne when I muse, Want grass-blade in its veins, Wisdom's whole flood contains, Thereon by foundering mind, Odyssey in fate can find, O little blade now vaunt, Thee and be arrogant, Tell the proud son that he, Sweated in shaping thee, Night that she did unvest, Her mooned and argent breast, To suckle thee, Heaven feign, Yurned over thee in rain, And with wide-parent wing, Shaddled thee, nested thing, Feed thee, and slaved for thy, Impotent tyranny, Nature's broad thues bent, Meek for thy content, Mastering littleness, which the wise Heavens confess, The frailty which doth draw, Make nepotence to its law, These were, O happy one these, Thy laughing, persistence, Be confident of thought, Seeing that thou art not, And be thy pride there all, Delectably safe and small, Epitomized in thee was the mystery Which shakes the spheres conjoint, God focuses to appoint, All thy fine mouse shout, Scorn upon the eye doubt, Impinertable fool, Is he thou canst not school, To the humility by which the angels see, Unfathomly framed, Sister, I am not shamed, Before the cherubin, To vaunt my flesh thy kin, My one hand thine, and one, Imprisoned in God's own, I am as God alas, And such a God of grass, A little root-clay caught, A wind aflame of thought, Inestimally not, Francis Thompson,