 Bright is the Ring of Words by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. Bright is the Ring of Words when the right man rings them, fare the fall of songs when the singer sings them. Still they are cariled and said on wings they are carried, after the singer is dead and the maker buried. Though as the singer lies in the field of heather, songs of his fashion bring the swans together, and when the west is red with the sunset embers, the lover lingers and sings, and a maid remembers. This recording is in the public domain. Buried Love by Sarah T. Stale, read for LibriVox.org by Molly Amundsen. I shall bury my weary love beneath a tree, in the forest tall and black where none can see. I shall put no flowers at his head nor stone at his feet, for the mouth I loved so much was bittersweet. I shall go no more to his grave, for the woods are cold. I shall gather as much of joy as my hands can hold. I shall stay all day in the sun where the wide winds blow. But oh, I shall weep at night when none will know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Deliz by Zella Muriel Wright, read for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. It stands out like a flower of pale gold among all my drab days. That night we too ran afield through the alfalfa and sweet clover. The wind blew the shirt from your throat and chest, and I marveled in silence at their beautiful strength. Then we stood still, you pressed your lips to my hair and drew my head close, close to your body, till I heard the mad throb of your heart and the riot of blood in your veins. Among my colorless drab days there's one flower of pale gold. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Even Such is Time by Sir Walter Raleigh, read for LibriVox.org by Candice Tuttle. Even Such is Time that takes in trust our youth, our joys, our all we have, and pays us but with earth and dust, who in the dark and silent grave, when we have wandered all our ways, shuts up the story of our days. But from this earth, this grave, this dust, my God shall raise me up, I trust. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lover and I ruined him I loved. There is no other havoc left to do. A little month ago I was a queen, and mothers held their babies up to see when I came riding out of Camelot. The women smiled, and all the world smiled, too. And now what woman's eyes would smile on me? I still am beautiful, and yet what child would think of me as some high heaven sent thing? An angel clad in gold and miniver? The world would run from me, and yet I am no different from the queen they used to love. If water flowing silver over stones is forwarded, and beneath the horses feet grows turbid suddenly, it clears again, and men will drink it with no thought of harm, yet I am branded for a single fault. I was the flower amid a toiling world, where people smiled to see one happy thing, and they were proud and glad to raise me high. They only asked that I should be right fair, a little kind, and gowned wondrously, and surely it were little praise to me if I had pleased them well throughout my life. I was a queen, the daughter of a king, the crown was never heavy on my head. It was my right, and was a part of me. The women thought me proud, the men were kind, and bowed right gallantly to kiss my hand, and watched me as I passed them calmly by, along the halls I shall not tread again. What if tonight I should revisit them? The warders at the gates, the kitchen maids, the very beggars would stand off from me, and I, their queen, would climb the stairs alone, pass through the banquet hall a loathed thing, and seek my chambers for a hiding place, and I should find them but a sepulcher. The very rushes rotted on the floors, the fire and ashes on the freezing hearth. I was a queen, and he who loved me best made me a woman for a night and day, and now I go unqueen'd forevermore. A queen should never dream on summer's eaves, when hovering spells are heavy in the dusk. I think no night was ever quite so still, so smoothly lit with red along the west, so deeply hushed with quiet through and through, and strangely clear, and deeply dyed with light. The trees stood straight against a paling sky, with Venus burning lamp-like in the west. I walked alone amid a thousand flowers that drooped their heads and drows'd beneath the dew, and all my thoughts were quieted to sleep. Behind me, on the walk, I heard a step. I did not know my heart could tell his tread. I did not know I loved him till that hour. Within my breast, I felt a wild, sick pain. The garden reeled a little. I was weak, and quick he came behind me, caught my arms that ached beneath his touch, and then I swayed. My head fell backward, and I saw his face. All this grows bitter that was once so sweet, and many mouths must drain the directs of it. But none will pity me nor pity him, whom love so lashed and with such cruel thongs. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Helen of Troy by Sarah Teasdale, read for Libbervox.org by Molly Amundsen. Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn. The flames, red wings, soar upward duskily. This is the funeral pyre, and Troy is dead. That sparkled so the day I saw it first, and darkened slowly after. I am she who loves all beauty, yet I wither it. Why have the high gods made me wreak their wrath? Forever, since my maidenhood to sow, sorrow, and blood about me, lo, they keep their bitter care above me even now. It was the gods who led me to this lair, that though the burning winds should make me weak, they should not snatch the life from out my lips. Olympus let the other women die. They shall be quiet when the day is done, and have no care tomorrow. Yet for me there is no rest. The gods are not so kind. To her made half immortal like themselves. It is to you I owe the cruel gift. Later, my mother, and the swan, my sire. To you the beauty, and to you the bale. For never woman born of man and maid had wrought such havoc on the earth's eye. We're troubled, heaven, with a sea of flame, that climbed to touch the silent whirling stars, and blotted out their brightness ere the dawn. Have I not made the world to weep enough? Give death to me. Yet life is more than death. How could I leave the sound of singing winds, the strong sweet scent that breathes from off the sea, or shut my eyes forever to the spring? I will not give the grave my hands to hold, my shining hair to light oblivion. Have those who wander through the ways of death, the still-worn fields Elysian any love, to lift their breasts with longing any lips to thirst against the quiver of a kiss. Though I shall live to conquer Greece again, to make the people love who hate me now. My dreams are over. I have ceased to cry against the fate that made men love my mouth and left their spirits all too deaf to hear the little songs that echoed through my soul. I have no anger now. The dreams are done. Yet since the Greeks and Trojans would not see, ought but my body's fairness till the end, in all the islands set in all the seas, and all the lands that lie beneath the sun, till light turn darkness, until time shall sleep. Men's lives shall waste with longing after me, for I shall be the sum of their desire, the whole of beauty never seen again. And they shall stretch their arms and starting wake, with Helen on their lips and in their eyes, the vision of me always I shall be, limbed on the darkness like a shaft of light that glimmers and is gone. They shall behold each one his dream that fashions me anew, with hair like lakes that glint beneath the stars, darkest sweet midnight, or with hair aglow like burnished gold that still retains the fire. Yea, I shall haunt until the dusk of time, the heavy islands filled with fleeting dreams. I wait for one who comes with sword to slay, the king I wronged who searches for me now, and yet he shall not slay me. I shall stand with lifted head and look within his eyes, bearing my breast to him and to the sun. He shall not have the power to stain with blood, that whiteness for the thirsty sword shall fall, and he shall cry and catch me in his arms, bearing me back to Sparta on his breast. Lo, I shall live to conquer Greece again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I love the Lordy with all my soul. Glory hallelujah. And that is the reason I'm going to the Lord. Glory hallelujah. Glory hallelujah. I am going to the Lord. I saved my party and my land. Glory hallelujah. But they have murdered me for it. And that is the reason I am going to the Lordy. Glory hallelujah. Glory hallelujah. I am going to the Lordy. I wonder what I will do when I get to the Lordy. I guess that I will leap no more when I get to the Lordy. Glory hallelujah. I wonder what I will see when I get to the Lordy. I expect to see most glorious things beyond all earthly conception when I am with the Lordy. Glory hallelujah. Glory hallelujah. I am with the Lord. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Illicit by D. H. Lawrence. Read for LibriVox.org by Frank Duncan. In front of the somber mountains a faint lost ribbon of rainbow and between us and it the thunder and down below in the green wheat the laborers stand like dark stumps still in the green wheat. You are near to me and your naked feet in their sandals and through the scent of the balcony's naked timber I distinguish the scent of your hair so now the limber lightning falls from heaven. A down the pale green glacier river floats a dark boat through the gloom and wither the thunder roars but still we have each other the naked lightnings in the heaven dither and disappear what have we but each other the boat has gone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I'm Nobody. Who are you? By Emily Dickinson. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. I'm Nobody. Who are you? Are you Nobody too? Then there's a pair of us. Don't tell. They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody. How public like a frog to tell your name the live long day to an admiring bog. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. She said through the folding doors with a laugh from the bed. As he sat by the fire in the outer room reading late on a night of gloom and a cab-hacks wheeze and the clap of its feet in its breathless pace on the smooth wet street where all that came to them now and then You really do, she quizzed again. And the spirits behind the curtains heard and also laughed, amused at her word and at her light-hearted view of him. Let's get him made so just for a whim, said the phantom, ironic. It would serve her right if we coaxed the will to do it some night. Oh, pray not, pleaded the younger one, the sprite of the pitties. She said it in fun. But so it befell, whatever the cause, that what she had called him he next year was. And on such a night when she lay elsewhere he, watched by those phantoms, again sat there and gazed as if gazing on far-faint shores at the empty bed through the folding doors. As he remembered her words and wept, that she had forgotten them where she slept. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The little drowsy stream whispers a melancholy tune as if it dreamed of June and whispered in its dream. The fistles show beyond the brook dust on their down and bloom and out of many a weed-grown nook the astaflowers look with eyes of tender gloom. The silent orchid aisles are sweet with smell of ripening fruit through the seagrass in shy retreat, flutter at coming feet, the robins, strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, the harsh leaves overhead. Only the quarrelous cricket grieves and shrilling locust weaves a song of summer dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In autumn by Arthur Simmons, read for Librivox.org by Ian King. Frail autumn lights upon the leaves beacon the ending of the year. The windy rains are here, wet nights and blowing winds about the eaves. Here in the valley mists begin to breathe about the riverside, the breath of autumn tide. The dark fields wait to take the harvest in. And you, and you are far away. Ah, this it is. And not the rain, now loud against the pain that takes the light and colour. From the day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I never saw a moor by Emily Dickinson. Read for Librivox.org by Candice Tuttle. I never saw a moor. I never saw the sea. Yet know I how the heather looks, and what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, nor visited in heaven. Yet certain am I of the spot, as if the chart were given. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Inspiration by Henry David Thoreau. Read for Librivox.org by Larry Wilson. What ere we leave to God, God does and blesses us. The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone. If with light head erect I sing, though all the muses lend their force, for my poor love of anything, the verses weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope, listening behind me for my wit, with faith superior to hope, more anxious to keep back than forward it. Making my soul accomplice there unto the flame my heart hath lit, then will the verse for ever wear, time cannot bend the line which God hath written. Always the general show of things floats in review before my mind, and such true love and reverence brings that sometimes I forget that I am blind. But now there comes unsought unseen some clear divine electorate, and I who had but sensual been, grow sensible, and as God is, am wary. I hearing yet who had but ears, and sight who had but eyes before. I moments live who lived but years, and truth discern who knew but learnings lore. I hear beyond the range of sound, I see beyond the range of sight, new earths and skies and seas around, and in my day the sun doth pale his light. A clear and ancient harmony pierces my soul through all its dim, as through its utmost melody, farther behind than they, farther within. More swift its bolt than lightning is, its voice then thunders more loud, it doth expand my privacies to all, and leave me single in the crowd. It speaks with such authority, with so serene and lofty tone, that idle time runs gadding by, and leaves me with eternity alone. Then chiefly is my natal hour, and only then my prime of life, of manhood's strength it is the flower, to his peace's end and war's beginning strife, tath come in summer's broadest noon, but a grey wall or some chance place, unseasoned time, insulted June, and vexed the day with its presuming face. Such fragrance round my couch it makes, more rich than our Arabian drugs, that my soul scents its life, and wakes the body up beneath its perfumed drugs. Such is the muse, the heavenly maid, the star that guides our mortal course, which shows where life's true kernels laid, its wheat's fine flower, and its undying force. She with one breath attunes the spheres, and also my poor human heart, with one impulse propels the years around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start. I will not doubt for evermore, nor falter from a steadfast faith, for though the system be turned o'er, God takes not back the word which once he saith. I will then trust the love untold, which not my worth nor want has bought, which wooed me young and woozed me old, and to this evening hath me brought. My memory I'll educate to know the one historic truth, remembering to the latest date the only true and soul immortal youth. Be but thy inspiration given, no matter through what danger sought, I'll fathom hell, or climb to heaven, and yet esteem that cheap which love has bought. Fame cannot tempt the bard who's famous with his God, nor laurel him reward, who hath his maker's nod. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. By Alan L. Hart. Red for LibriVox.org. By Nikolai Volta. Irish Colleen. Irish Colleen. You should be wearing the green. There's no one like you, dear. I know at first sight here that you were my Irish Colleen. Deario, dearie, my dearie, you look as sweet as a fairy. Your eyes have the gleam, for the sun's gentle beam, on the emerald isle Irish Colleen. I'm in love with you, Irish Colleen. With your dark hair, blue eyes, I wean, that I'm safe in your tether, and will wear green together, if you'll only say yes, dear Colleen. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Jabberwocky. By Lewis Carroll. Red for LibriVox.org. By Craig Franklin. T'was a brillig, and the slightly toves did gaya, and gimble in the wabe. All nimzy were the borrower's groves, and the momereth's outgrabe. Beware the jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Beware the jab-jab bird, and shun, the thrumious bandage snatch. He took his vorpal sword in hand, long time the manksome foe he sought, so rested he by the tum-tum tree, and stood a while in thought. And as in ofish thought he stood, the jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the tollgy wood, and burbled as it came. One, two, one, two, and through, and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left it dead, and with his head he went glumping back. And hast thou slain the jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frebulous day, collu-collay, he chortled in his joy. T'was brillig, and the slightly toves did gaya, and gimble in the wabe. All nimzy were the borrower's groves, and the momereth's outgrabe. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I dreamed I was dreaming one morn as I lay in the garden with flowers teeming. On an island I lay in a mystical bay in the dream that I dreamed I was dreaming. The ghost of ascent had it followed me there, from the place where I truly was resting. It filled like an anthem, the aisles of the air, the presence of roses attesting. Yet I thought in the dream that I dreamed I dreamed, that the place was all barren of roses. That it only seemed the place I deemed was the aisle of bewildered noses. Full, many a seamen had testified how all who sailed near were enchanted, and landed to search, and in searching died, for the roses the sirens had planted, for the sirens were dead and the billows boomed in the stead of their singing forever. But the roses bloomed on the graves of the doomed, though man had discovered them never. I thought in my dream, t'was an idle tale, a delusion that mariners cherished, that the fragrance loading the conscious gale was a ghost of a rose long perished. I said, I will fly from this island of woe, and acting on that decision, by that odor of rose I was led by the nose, for t'was truly a truly elision. I ran in my madness to seek out the source of the redolent river, directed by some supernatural sinister force, to a forest dark, haunted, infected. And still as I threaded, t'was all in the dream that I dreamed I was dreaming, each turning, there were many a scream and a sudden gleam of eyes all uncannily burning. The leaves were all wet with a horrible dew that mirrored the red moon's crescent, and all shapes were fringed with a ghostly blue, dim, wavering, phosphorescent. But the fragrance divine coming strong and free led me on, though my blood was clotting, till, ah, joy, I could see on the limbs of a tree, mine enemies hanging and rotting. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lenore, by Francis Sargent Osgood, read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. Lenore. Oh, fragile and fair, as the delicate chalices wrought with so rare and so subtlest skill, bright relics that tell of the pomp of those palaces, Venice, the sea goddess, glories in still, whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, a pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes, yet ah, is some false hand profaning its splendor, theirs but to taint it with poison, it breaks. So when love pours through thy pure heart his lightning, on thy pale cheek the soft rose use awoke, so when wild passion, that timid heart frightening, poisoned the treasure, it trembled and broke. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Marseillais, by Claude Joseph Roger de Lille, 1760-1836, anonymously translated from the French. Read for LibriVox.org. Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory, hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise. Your children, wives, and grandsires, hoary, behold their tears and hear their cries. Shall hateful tyrants mischiefs breeding, with hairline hosts a ruffian band, a frighten, and desolate the land, while peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms, to arms ye brave, the avenging sword unsheath, march on, march on, all hearts resolved, on victory or death. Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, which treacherous kings confederate raise. The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, and low, our fields and cities blaze. And shall we basely view the ruin, while lawless force, with guilty stride, spreads desolation far and wide, with crimes and blood, his hands imbuing? To arms, to arms ye brave, the avenging sword unsheath, march on, march on, all hearts resolved, on victory or death. O liberty, can man resign thee, once having felt thy generous flame? Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee, or whips thy noble spirit tame? Too long the world has wept, bewilling that falsehood's dagger tyrants wield, but freedom is our sword and shield, and all their arts are unavailing. To arms, to arms ye brave, the avenging sword unsheath, march on, march on, all hearts resolved, on victory or death. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. One day, in paradise, two angels, beaming, strode along the amber walk that lies beside the street of gold. At last they met and gazed into each other's eyes, then dropped their harps, amazed, and stood in mute surprise. And other angels came, and, as they lingered near, heard both at once exclaim, Say, how did you get here? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My heart and thy voice, by Auguste von Platten, translated by A. Baskerville, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Oh, let me read thee well, thy heart I feign would see. Oh, what a magic spell speaks in thy voice to me! So many phrases rush at random in our ear, and when their echoes hush, the heart is cold and drear. In when thy distant voice stoff in my ear resound, I listen and rejoice and ne'er forget the sound. I tremble as I glow with flames I cannot quell. My heart, thy voice, they know each other but too well. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Neophyte, by Alistair Crowley, read for LibriVox.org by Sophia Solaris. Tonight I tread the unsubstantial way that looms before me. As the thundering night falls on the ocean, I must stop and pray one little prayer. And then, what bitter fight flames at the end beyond the darkling goal. These are my passions that my feet must tread. This is my sword, the fervor of my soul. This is my will, the crown upon my head. For see, the darkness beckons. I have gone before this terrible hour towards the gloom. Brave the wild dragon, called the tiger on with whirling cries of pride, sought out the tomb where lurking vampires battened, and my steel has wrought its splendor through the gates of death. My courage did not falter. Now I feel my heart beat wavewise, and my throat catch breath as if I choked. Some horror creeps between the spirit of my will and its desire. Some just reluctance to the great unseen that coils its nameless terrors, and its dire fear around my heart. A devil cold as ice breathes somewhere, for I feel his shudder take my veins. Some deadlier ass where cockatrous slimes in my senses, I am half awake, half automatic. As I move along, wrapped in a cloud of blackness deep as hell, hearing afar some half-forgotten song as of disruption, yet strange glories dwell above my head. As if the sword of light, raid of the very dawn, would strike within the limitations of this deadly night that folds me for the sign of death and sin. O light, descend! My feet move vaguely on in this amazing darkness, in the gloom that I can touch with trembling scents. They're shone once, in my misty memory, in the womb of some unformulated thought, the flame and smoke of mighty pillars. Yet my mind is clouded with the horror of this same path of the wise men. For my soul is blind yet, and the foemen I have never feared, I could not see if such should cross the way. And therefore I am strange. My soul is seared with desolation, of the blinding day I have come out from. Yes, that fearful light was not the sun. My life has been the death, this death may be the light. My spirit sight knows that at last, at least. My doubtful breath is breathing in a nobler air. I know, I know it in my soul, despite of this, the clinging darkness of long ago, cruel as death and closer than a kiss. This horror of great darkness, I am come into this darkness to attain the light. To gain my voice, I make myself as dumb, that I may see I close my outer sight, so I am here. My brows are bent in prayer, I kneel already in the gates of dawn, and I am come, albeit unaware. To the deep sanctuary, my hope is drawn, from wells profounder than the very sea. Yay, I am come, where at least I guessed it so, into the very presence of the three that are beyond all gods. And now I know what spiritual light is drawing me up to its stooping splendor. In my soul I feel the spring, the all devouring dawn, rush with my rising. There, beyond the goal, the veil is rent. Yes, let the veil be drawn. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Yorkshire lyrics, holds, written in the dialect, as spoken in the west writing of Yorkshire, to which are added a selection of figurative verses not in the dialect, or John Hartley. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer. Please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Chad Horner from Ballyclair, in County Andrew, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Yorkshire lyrics, holds, written in the dialect, as spoken in the west writing of Yorkshire, to which are added a selection of figurative verses not in the dialect, but John Hartley. Nettie. Nettie. Nettie. Oh, she's pretty, with her wreath of golden curls. None compare with charming Nettie. She's the prettiest of girls. Not her face alone is sweetest, nor her eyes the blue is blue, but her figure is the neatest of all forms I ever knew. But she has a fault, the greatest, that a pretty girl could have, when she's looking the saddest, and pretending to be grave. You discover, spite of hiding, what I feel constrained to tell, that she knows she is a beauty, knows it, knows it, I too well. Maybe when the bloom has vanished, which we know in time it will, and her foolish fancy's banished, maybe she'll be lovely still, for though time may put his finger on her dainty fashion face, there will still some beauty linger, round her forms so full of grace. And her heart, the price is treasure, with so many long to win, still shall prove a fount of pleasure, to the love that enters in. Pity tis the fairest blossoms, must in time fall from the tree. Pity tis that snow-white bosoms, must yield up their symmetry. Brightest eyes will lose their love-light, fairest cheeks grow pale and gray, golden locks will lose their sunlight, and the loveliest limbs decay. But whilst life is left, we hunger for a taste of earthly bliss, but the man needs seek no longer, who can call sweet Nettie his. End of Nettie. This recording is in the public domain. A soft little baby with violet eyes, shining and pure and white. But how did the little new baby get down here from the depths of the sky? She couldn't have come alone, you know, for she's much too young to fly. Oh, the angels carried her down in their arms, from the far away beautiful blue, brought her down from the arms of God, a present to me and to you. So you see, we must kiss the baby, and give her a lot of love, that she may not need the angels, till she meets him again above. End of the new baby. This recording is in the public domain. Almost yours, departure 1582. Read for LibberVox.org by Chad Horner, from Balli Clare in Countyampton, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. I grieve and dare not show my discontent. I love and yet I'm forced to seem to hate. I do yet dare not say I ever meant. I seem stark, I'm mute, but inwardly do pray it. I am and not. I freeze and yet I'm burned, since from myself another self I turned. My care is like my shadow in the sun. Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it. Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done. His too familiar care doth make me read. No means I find to rid him from my breast, till by the end of things it be suppressed. Some gentler passion slide into my mind, for I am soft, I'm made of melting snow, or be more cruel, love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink be high or low, or let me live with some more sweet content, or die and so forget what love ere meant. Elizabeth Jitter, Queen Elizabeth I. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Philosophic Flight by Jordano Bruno Read for LibriVox.org by Sophia Solaris Now that these wings to speed my wish ascend, the more I feel vast air beneath my feet, the more toward boundless air on pinion's fleet, spurning the earth, soaring to heaven I tend, nor makes them stoop their flight the direful end of Deidle's sun, but upwards still they beat. What life the wild with this death could compete, if dead to earth at last I must descend? My own heart's voice in the void air I hear. Where wilt thou bear me, O rash man? Recall thy daring will. This boldness waits on fear. Dread not, I answer, that tremendous fall, strike through the clouds and smile when death is near, if death so glorious be our doom at all. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Plong for the young English King by Ezra Pound Read for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. Plong for the young English King, that is Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to Richard, Corde Leon, from the Provençal of Bertrands de Bourne. If all the grief and woe and bitterness, all the lore, ill and every evil chance, that ever came upon this grieving world were set together, they would seem but light against the death of the young English King. Worth life riven and youth dolerous, the world overshadowed, soiled and overcast, void of all joy and full of ire and sadness. Grieving and sad and full of bitterness are left in teen the Legeman courtious, the juggler's supple and the troubadours, or much hath teen Sir Death, that deadly warrior, and taking from them the young English King, who made the freest hand seem covetous. Lass never was nor will be in this world the balance for this loss in ire and sadness. O skillful Death and full of bitterness, well mace thou boast that thou the best chevelier that any folk ever had has from us taken, Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth, but had its life and the young English King, in better worth it should God grant his pleasure, that he should live than many a living, dastard that doth but wound the good with ire and sadness. From this faint world now full of bitterness, love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful. Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish, and each today veils less than yesterine. Let each man visage this young English King that was most valiant, mid all worthyest men. God is his body fine and amorous, whence have we grief, discord, and deepest sadness. Him who it pleased for our great bitterness to come to earth to draw us from misventure, who drank of death for our salvation, him do we pray, as to a Lord most righteous and humble eek that the young English King he pleased to pardon as true pardon is, and bid go in with honoured companions, there where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Ports of the Open Sea by Henry Lawson Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Down here where the ships loom large in the gloom when the sea storms veer, down here on the southwest margin of the western hemisphere, where the might of a worldwide ocean round the youngest land rolls free, stormbound from the world's commotion lie the ports of the open sea. By the bluff where the grey sand reaches to the curb of the spray-swept street. By the sweep of the black sand beaches from the main road travelers' feet. By the heights like a work Titanic begun ere the gods' work ceased. By a blocked line coast volcanic lie the ports of the wild southeast. By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges, by the scarped and terraced hills, far away from the swift life changes, from the wear of the strife that kills, where the land in the spring seems younger than a land of the earth might be. O the hearts of the rover's hunger for the ports of the open sea. But the captains which walked and hearken for a sign of the South Sea wrap, let the face of the southeast darken, and they turn to the ocean path. Aye, the sea boats dare not linger, whatever the cargo be, when the southeast lifts a finger by the ports of the open sea. South by the bleak bluff ferry, north where the three kings wait, southeast the tip is daring, flight through the storm-toss strait, yonder a white-winged roamers struck where the rollers roar, where the great green-froth flaked comber breaks down on a black-ribbed shore. For the southeast lands are dreadlands to the sailor in the shrouds, where the low clouds loom like headlands, and the black bluffs blur like clouds, where the breakers rage to the windward, and the lights are masked alley, and the sunken rocks run inward to a port of the open sea. But oh, for the southeast weather, the sweep of the three days gale, when far through the flaxen heather, the spin drift drives like hail, glory to man's creations that drive where the gale grows grough, when the homes of the sea-coast stations flash white from the darkening bluff, when the swell of the southeast rouses the wrath of the Maori sprite, and the brown folk flee their houses and crouch in the flax by night, and wait as they long have waited, in fear as the brown folk be, the wave of destruction fated for the ports of the open sea. Gray cloud to the mountain bases, while boughs that rush and sweep, on the rounded hills the tussocks like flocks of flying sheep, a lonely stormbird soaring or tussock thin and tree, and the boulder beaches roaring, the hymn of the open sea, in the poem this recording is in the public domain. THE POWER OF SONG by Edward Capern read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok who said there was no power in song and named it empty sound. Let but the lash of human wrong, the poet's spirit wound, and fears as lightning from the cloud shall flash his glance of fire and words of might as thunder loud shall speak his burning ire. He talk of deeds say what is thought when marching through a line when with a potent grandeur fraught and harmony divine, doth it not seize upon the soul and bear it far away as ships which on the ocean roll by winds are driven say hath it not shone a glorious light where all was dark before and blessed the sons of toil with might to win a distant shore and hath not error fled from truth and tyranny been hurled by poets from its throne of Ruth the grim curse of the world then say not song is void of power it melts the negro's chains no bird in love's enchanting bower can sing such pleasant strains a giant in the cause of right the harbinger of fame it nerves the warrior for the fight and guilds the victor's name end of poem this recording is in the public domain Procrastination by Isabelle Richie read for Librebox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington Procrastination is the God's best gift possession shows a blemish on the fruit he happiest is who never finds the rift that lies within the bosom of the loot a thing is good and perfect to a man who views afar the handiwork of art but if to near its beauties he would scan a telltale patch appears on every part the wish to kiss is sweeter than the deed the looking forward is the keenest joy who thinks to fill the measure of his greed his mouth is filled with ashes and alloy who plucks the rose must also pluck the thorn and thorns then roses often have longer lives one might not think until one's hand is torn that stings and honey both are in the hives who always thinks to sail but never sails looks forward to the journey day by day yet has no ship to perish by the gales that wreck a thousand others on the way he is the Solomon of humankind who stands with folded arms beside the sea and says tomorrow I will trust the wind then makes that morrow reach eternity end of poem this recording is in the public domain progress by Matthew Arnold read for Librebox.org by Larry Wilson the master stood upon the mountain top he saw a fire in his disciples eyes the old law they said is wholly come to not behold the new world rise was it the Lord then said with scorn you saw the old law observed by scribes and Pharisees I say unto you see ye keep that law more faithfully than these two hasty heads for ording worlds alas think not that I to an oval law have willed no jot no tittle from the law shall pass till all have been fulfilled so Christ said 1800 years ago and what then shall be said to those today who cry aloud to lay the old world low to clear the new world's way religious fervors ardor misapplied hence hence they cry you do but keep man blind but keep himself immersed preoccupied and laying the active mind ah from the old world that someone answer give scorn ye this world their tears their inward cares I say unto you see that your souls live a deeper life than theirs say ye the spirit of man has found new roads and we must leave the old faiths and walk there in leave then the cross as ye have left carved gods but guard the fire within bright else and fast the stream of life may roll and no man the others hurt behold yet each will have one anguish his own soul which perishes of cold hear let that voice make end then let a strain from a far lonelier distance like the wind to be heard floating through heaven and fill again these men's profoundest mind children of men the unseen power whose eye forever did the company mankind hath looked on no religion scornfully that man did ever find which has not taught weak wills how much they can which has not fallen on the dry heart like rain which has not cried to sunk self weary man thou must be born again children of men not that your age excel in pride of life the ages of your sires but that ye think clear fill deep bear fruit well the friend of man desires in the poem this recording is in the public domain the reference librarian by Arthur R. Curry read for LibriVox.org by Anita Slova Martinez one day I thought I'd try her out I'd heard the neighbors talk about her having special education to help her locate information well now says I I want to see if she can find some facts for me I've read a scattered heap you know since 47 years ago and I allowed to ask some questions that didn't have the least connections with what folks are supposed to know I wrote them down in order so what is the height of Eipel Tower what makes my apple cider sour and then to test the Bible knowledge of them that study off at college I asked her where King got his wife and last I asked the source of life I thought the girl would be amazed instead of that not even phased she told the height of Eipel Tower explained what made my cider sour discussed Cain and the land of Nod and said the source of life was God and in poem this recording is in the public domain remorse by Auguste von Platten translated by H. W. Longfellow read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist how I started up in the night in the night drawn on without rest or reprieval the streets with their watchmen were lost to my sight as I wandered so light in the night in the night through the gate with the arch medieval the millbrook rushed from its rocky height I leaned over the bridge in my yearning deep under me watched I the waves in their flight as they glided so light in the night in the night yet backward not one was returning or head was revolving so countless and bright the stars in melodious existence and with them the moon more serenely bedight they sparkled so light in the night in the night through the magical measureless distance and upward I gazed in the night in the night and again on the waves in their fleeting oh whoa thou hast wasted thy days in delight now silence thou light in the night in the night the remorse in my heart that is beating end of poem this recording is in the public domain the removal by Henry Webster Parker read fullybreevox.org by Sonja the removal the fiend had gone and all was still in each a frighted hall and room and moonlight lay on roof and hill a deathly smile across the gloom a grand aim old had fled a wound her steps had tracked with dotting blood within the hall a man had swooned and there a trembling maiden stood she had escaped the vengeful arm that smote a father mother child and there she leaned in fixed alarm and gazed around in horror wild a half hushed cry was heard alone the wailing of a dying girl who lay where firelight flashes shone on lily cheek and flossy curl and were these all that filled the scene the living twain the dying three ah had we spirit eyes a ween there had been other sight to see the gloomy shadows of the night the moonlight cold and pale and thin the stars above the fading light of feeble fire and lamp within had all been lost in light and song the glory of a hidden world and we had seen a gathering throng that stood with angel pinions furled they stooped above the child that host and with them gazed to others there not pale and misty like a ghost but as the angels bright and fair they were the spirits of the dead in flowing ropes of glistening white with circling halos round each head and glancing wings of silver light they watched until the wailing seized and flame like from the lifeless clay the infant spirit was released awakened to immortal day as birds shake off the spangled view and greet the dawn and cheerly sing the infant to its parents flew with joyful flutter of the wing then hand in hand they trod the air and touched no more the sanguine floor nor is their presence heated there nor needs their passage open door a parting glance at hallowed home they cast their journey then begun they mounted through the starry dome and passed the last resplendent sun still up they floated hand in hand it was a glorious sight to see around them still the flaming band with song and heavenly pageantry at length a glory met their sight that mortal eye may not behold broad gates of pearl and spires of light and long drawn streets of lucid gold they reached at last the inmost space where on a lofty jasper throne set one from whose unveiled face the earth and heavens may well have flown they stood amid the sunlight glow the child and parents in a band and looked not up and bowed them low with covered face and clasping hand they took no harp no anthem sang but knelt in humble silence there and while the heavens with welcome rang for him who slew them breathed a prayer and of poem this recording is in the public domain second love by isabel richie red for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington oh second love the indian summer of the heart red leafed october of life's golden year less rosy than the green clad queen thou art but not less dear first love is like the knotting springtime flower that gaily bends with every passing breeze last love is like the fruit which autumn's hour hangs on the trees first love is like the noisy mountain rail that loudly tells its story to the wind last love is like the river broad and still deep soul and kind first love is like the summer sonic noon the soul grows weary of its torrid heat last love is like the ray of harvest moon tender and sweet first love is like the foam upon the cup in sparkling bubbles to the red lip pressed but like the nectar which it covers up last love is best end of poem this recording is in the public domain the send-off by wilfred owen red for LibriVox.org by craig franklin down the close darkening lanes they sang their way to the siding shed unline the train with faces grimly gay their breasts were stuck or white with wreath and spray as men's are dead delport has watched them and a casual tramp stood staring hard sorry to miss them from the upland camp then unmoved signals nodded and a lamp winked to the guard so secretly like rongs hushed up they went they were not ours we never heard to which front these were sent nor there if they yet mock what women meant who gave them flowers shall they return to beatings of great bells in wild train loads a few a few too few for drums and yells may creep back silent to still village wells up half known roads end of poem this recording is in the public domain Shakespeare by William Lyle Bowles red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk oh sovereign master who with lonely state dust rule as in some Isles enchanted land on whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait whilst scenes of fairy bloom at thy command on thy wild shores forgetful could I lie and list till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy called by thy magic from the hoary deep aerial form should in bright troops ascend and then a wondrous mask before me sweep whilst sounds that the earth owned not seemed to blend their stealing melodies that when the strain ceased I should weep and would so dream again the song hath ceased ah who pale shade art thou sad raving to the rude tempestuous night sure thou hast had much wrong so stern thy brow so piteous thou dust tear thy tresses white so wildly thou dust cry blow bitter wind ye elements I call not you unkind beneath the shade of nodding branches gray mid rude romantic woods and glens forlorn the merry hunters wear the hours away rings the deep forest to the joyous horn joyous to all but him who with sad look hangs idly musing by the brawling brook but mark the merry elves of fairyland to the high moon's gleamy glance they with shadowy morris dance soft music dies along the desert sand soon at peep of cold eyed day soon the numerous lights decay merrily now merrily after the dewy moon they fly the charm is wrought I see an aged form in white robes on the winding seashore stand or the careering surge he waves his wand hark on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay come to these yellow sands fair stranger come away saw ye pass by the weird sister's pale marked he the lowering castle on the heath hark hark is the deed done the deed of death the deed is done hail king of scotland hail I see no more to many a fearful sound the bloody cauldron sinks and all is dark around pity touch the trembling strings a maid a beautyous maniac wildly sings they laid him in the ground so cold upon his breast the earth is thrown high is heaped the grassy mold oh he is dead and gone the winds of the winter blow or his cold breast but pleasant shall be his rest oh sovereign master at whose soul command we start with terror or with pity weep oh where is now thy all-creating wand buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep the staff is broke the powerful spell is flared and never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread and a poem this recording is in the public domain I sit and look out by Walt Whitman read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world and upon all oppression and shame I hear secret convulsive subs from young men at anguish with themselves remorseful after deeds done I see in low life the mother misused by her children dying neglected gaunt desperate I see the wife misused by her husband I see the treacherous seducer of young women I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love attempted to be hid I see these sights on the earth I see the workings of battle pestilence tyranny I see martyrs and prisoners I observe a famine at sea I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be killed to preserve the lives of the rest I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers the poor and upon negroes and the like all these all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon see here and am silent and a poem this recording is in the public domain Slavery by William Cooper 1731 to 1800 from the task book to the timepiece read for LibriVox.org Slavery Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness some boundless contiguity of shade where rumor of oppression and deceit of unsuccessful or successful war might never reach me more my eyes are pained my soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled there is no flesh in man's obdurate heart it does not feel for man the natural bond of brotherhood is severed as the flax that falls asunder at the touch of fire he finds his fellow guilty of a skin not colored like his own and having power to enforce the wrong for such a worthy cause dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey lands intersected by a narrow frith abhor each other mountains interposed make enemies of nation who at else like kindred drops been mingled into one thus man devotes his brother and destroys and worse than all and most to be deplored as human nature's broadest fallowless blood chains him and tasks him and exacts his sweat with stripes that mercy with a bleeding heart weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast then what is man and what man seeing this and having human feelings does not blush and hang his head to think himself a man i would not have a slave to till my ground to carry me to fan me while i sleep and tremble when i wake for all the wealth that sinews bought and sold have ever earned no dear as freedom is and in my heart's just estimation prized above all price i had much rather be myself the slave and wear the bonds than fasten them on him we have no slaves at home then why abroad and they themselves once ferried or the wave that parts us are emancipated and loosed slaves cannot breathe in england if their lungs receive our air that moment they are free they touch our country and their shackles fall that's noble and bespeaks a nation proud and jealous of the blessing spread it then and let it circulate through every vein of all your empire that where britain's power is felt mankind may feel her mercy too end of poem this recording is in the public domain song by hyrum led spencer read fully revox.org by sonia song not a leaf on the tree not a flower in the wildwood where so often we roved in the glad days of childhood not a bird on the bow that bends over the stream that danced in the spring needs the sun's mellow beam the leaves that were green when the summer was here needs the cold blast of autumn are withered in sear and the calm azure depth of the clear summer skies no more meets the gaze of our sorrowing eyes not a leaf on the tree not a flower in the veil how cold and how chill is the autumnal gale but we'll heed not the changes that follow so fast in our hearts the sweet summer forever will last end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet 29 when in disgrace by william shakespeare read for libravox.org by kandace tuttle when in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes i all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries and look upon myself and curse my fate wishing me like to one more rich in hope featured like him like him with friends possessed desiring this man's art and that man's scope with what i most enjoy contented least yet in these thoughts myself almost despising happily i think on thee and then my state like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate for thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings that then i scorn to change my state with kings end of poem this recording is in the public domain sonnet by august von platten anonymous translation read for libravox.org by newgate novelist fair is the day that bodes as fair a morrow with noble brow with eyes in heaven's dew of tender years and charming as the new so found i thee so found i too my sorrow oh could i shelter in thy bosom borough their most collected where the most unbent oh would this coiness were already spent that i adjourns our union till tomorrow oh but canst thou hate me aren't thou yet unshaken wherefore refused thou the soft confession to him who loves yet feels himself forsaken oh when thy future love doth make expression an anxious rapture will the moment awaken as with a youthful prince at his accession end of poem this recording is in the public domain a summer's night by paul lorence dumbbar read for libravox.org by staphon the night is dewy as a maiden's mouth the skies are bright as are a maiden's eyes soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies up from the perfumed bosom of the south like sentinels the pines stand in the park and hither hastening like rakes that roam with lamps to light their wayward footsteps home the fireflies come staggering down the dark end of poem this recording is in the public domain summer by john claire read for libravox.org by winston tharp come we to the summer to the summer we will come for the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom and the crow is on the oak a building of her nest and love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast she sits beneath the white thorn a plating of her hair and i will to my true lover with a fond request repair i will look upon her face i will in her beauty rest and lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast the clock of clay is creeping on the open bloom of may the merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day and the chaff inch it is brooding on its gray mossy nest in the white thorn bush where i will lean upon my lover's breast i'll lean upon her breast and i'll whisper in her ear that i cannot get a wink of sleep for thinking of my dear i hunger at my meat and i daily fade away like the hedgerows that is broken in the heat of the day and a poem this recording is in the public domain susan simpson from little masterpieces of american wit and humor edited by thomas l mason read for libravox.org by dale growthman sudden swallows swiftly skimming sunset slowly spreading shade silvery songsters sweetly singing summer soothing serenade susan simpson droll sedately stifling sobs suppressing sighs seeing steven slocum stately she stopped showing some surprise say said steven sweetest sire say shall steven's spouseless stay susan seeming somewhat shyer showed submissiveness straight away summer season slowly stretches susan simpson slocum she so she signs some simple sketches soul sought soul successfully six septembers susan swelters six sharp seasons snow supplies susan satin sofa shelters six small slocums side by side end of poem this recording is in the public domain thought in space by ray d bradbury read for libravox.org by kevin s space the boundaries are time and time alone no earthborn rocket seedling skyward sound will ever reach your cold infinite end this power is not man's to build or send great deities laugh down venting their mirth at struggling bipeds on a cloud-wrapped earth chain solid on a war-swept waning globe for fate who witnesses to pry and probe but list one weapon have i stronger yet prepare infinity in god's regret thought quick as light shall pierce the veil to reach the lost beginnings holy grail cross the sullen void on soundless trail where new spawned suns and chilling planets wail one thought shall travel miss the god's play things past cindered globes where choking flames still sings no wall of force yet have you firmly wrought that chains the supreme strength of purist thought unleashed without a body slacking hold thought leaves the ancient earth behind to mold and when the galaxies have hit at death and welcome lastly spaces poison breath still shall thought travel as an arrow flown space thy boundaries are time and time alone and a poem this recording is in the public domain through the meadow by william dean howell's red4librovs.org by ian king the summer sun was soft and bland as they went through the meadowland the little wind that hardly shook the silver of the sleeping brook blew the gold hair about her eyes a mystery of mysteries so he must often pause and stoop and all the wanton ringlets loop behind her dainty ear in prize of slow event and many sighs across the stream was scarce a step and yet she feared to try the leap and he to steal her sweet alarm must lift her over on his arm she could not keep the narrow way for still the little feet would stray and ever musty bend to undo the tangled grasses from her shoe from dainty rosebud lips in pout must kiss the perfect flower out ah little caquette fair deceit some things are bitter that's worse sweet end of poem this recording is in the public domain i'm the supreme by edward young 1681 to 1765 from night thoughts night one red4librovs.org time the supreme the bell strikes one we take no note of time but from its loss to give it then a tongue is wise and man as if an angel spoke i feel the solemn sound if heard of right it is the knell of my departed hours where are they with the years beyond the flood it is the signal that demands dispatch how much is to be done my hopes and fears start up alarmed and or life's narrow verge look down on what a petham lyssibis a dread eternity how surely mine and can eternity belong to me poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour time the supreme time is eternity pregnant with all eternity can give pregnant with all that makes our angel smile who murders time he crushes in the birth of power ethereal only not adored how unjust to nature and himself is thoughtless thankless inconsistent man like children babbling nonsense in their sports we censor nature for a span too short that span too short we tax as tedious to torture invention all expedience tire to lash the lingering moments into speed and whirl us happy riddance from ourselves art brainless art our furious chariot tear for nature's voice unstifled would recall drives headlong towards the precipice of death death most our dread death thus more dreadful made oh what a riddle of absurdity leisure is pain take off our chariot wheels how heavy we drag the load of life blessed leisure is our curse like that of kane it makes us wander wander earth around to fly that tyrant thought has atlas grown to the world beneath we groan beneath an hour we cry for mercy to the next amusement the next amusement mortgages our fields slight inconvenience prisons hardly frown from hateful time if prison set us free yet when death kindly tenders us relief we call him cruel years to moments shrink ages to years the the telescope is turned to man's false optics from his folly false time in advance behind him hides his wings and seems to creep decrepit with his age behold him when passed by what then is seen but his broad pinions swifter than the winds and all mankind in contradiction strong rueful aghast cry out on his career end of poem this recording is in the public domain to an athlete dying young by a houseman read for libra vox.org by ryan fink the time you won your town the race we chaired you through the marketplace man and boys stood cheering by and home we brought you shoulder high today the road all runners come shoulder high we bring you home and set you at your threshold down townsmen of a stiller town smart lad to slip the times away from fields where glory does not stay and early though the laurel grows it withers quicker than the rose eyes the shady night has shut cannot see the record cut and silent sounds no worse than cheers after earth has stopped the ears now you will not swell the route of lads that wore their honors out runners whom renown out ran and the name died before the man so set before its echoes fade the fleet foot on the sill of shade and holds to the low lentil up the still defended challenge cup and round that early laurel head will flock to gaze the strengthless dead and find unwithered on its curls the garland briefer than a girls end of poem this recording is in the public domain to the virgins to make much of time by robert harrick read for libervox.org by ryan f gather ye rose buds while ye may old time is still a flying and this same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying the glorious lamp of heaven the sun the higher he's a getting the sooner will his race be run and near he's to setting that age is best which is the first when youth and blood are warmer but being spent the worse and worst time still succeed the former then be not coy but use your time and while he may go marry for having lost but once your prime you may forever tarry end of poem this recording is in the public domain transition by isabel richie read for libervox.org by mike overby midland washington when one has passed beyond our mortal ken we ring our hands and weep calling return in accents wild and deep oh friend return again who climbs the heights beyond the snowy range and sees the stores of summer all unrolled would he return again through night and cold to see what must seem a country dark and strange we wail him dead and search the vaulted blue with glance foreshortened by a mist of tears a veil that cuts off god's unnumbered years and hides the heavenly hilltops from our view he is not dead he is but newly born his soul has reached the mountaintops above with wings outspread upon the winds of love he greets the breaking of celestial mourn end of poem this recording is in the public domain