 The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full. The moon lies fair upon the straits. On the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand glimmering and vast out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window. Sweet is the night air. Only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand listen. You hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand. Begin and cease and then again begin with tremulous cadence slow and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another. For the world which seems to lie before us, like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy nor love nor light, nor certitude nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica, April 10, 2007 The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits. On the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet as the night air, only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand. Listen! You hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling at their return up the high strand. Begin and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the foal, and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furrowed. But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another, for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new. Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand, listen, you hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at the return, up the high strand, begin and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the trebid ebb and flow of human misery, be find also in the sound thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full and rounder shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled, but now I only hear its melancholy, long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. I love, let us be true to one another, for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain, and we are here, as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. Red for LibriVox.org by Elizabeth Klett. The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. The moon lies fair upon the straits. On the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window. Sweet is the night air. Only from the long line of spray, where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand. Listen. You hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling, at their return up the high strand, begin and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear its melancholy, long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds, down the vast edges drear, and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another. For the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy nor love, nor light nor certitude, nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air, only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand, listen. You hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand, begin and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles, long ago, heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound of thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full, and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle-fold, but now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another, for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath rarely neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain. And we are here, as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nova Beach by Matthew Arnold Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage The sea is calm to-night, the tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits, on the French coast the light gleams and is gone, the cliffs of England stand glimmering and vast out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet as the night air, only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon blanched sand, listen. You hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand, begin and cease, and then again begin, with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sounder thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full, and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle-fold. But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds down the vast edges, drear and naked shingles of the world. Our love, let us be true to one another, for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams so various, so beautiful, so new hath really neither joy nor love nor light nor certitude nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The sea is calm tonight, the tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits, on the French coast the light gleams and is gone, the cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet as the night air, only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon blanched sand. Listen, you hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand. Begin and cease and then again begin with tremulous cadence slow and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full and round earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furrowed. But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar retreating to the breath of the night winds down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. All love let us be true to one another for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams so various, so beautiful, so new hath riddling neither joy nor love nor light nor certitude nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. Read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith. The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. The moon lies fair upon the straits. On the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand glimmering in vast out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window. Sweet is the night air. Only from the long line of spray where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand. Listen. To hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand begin and cease and then again begin with tremulous cadence slow and bring the internal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full and round earth surely like the folds of a bright girdle furrowed, but now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar retreating to the breath of the night winds down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another, for the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy nor love nor light nor certitude nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plane swept with confused alarms of struggle in flight where ignorant armies clash by light. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, read for LibriVox.org by Squid Vajlakova, found at Frisco-squid.blogspot.com. Dover Beach, the sea is calm tonight, the tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the straits, on the French coast the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand glimmering and vast out in the tranquil bay, come to the window, sweet as the night air, only, from the long line of spray with the sea meets the moon-blanched sand. Listen, you hear the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand, begin and cease and then again begin, with tremulence cadence slow and bring the eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound of thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the full and round earth shore, lily like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar, retreating to the breath of the night winds, down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another, for the world seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy nor love nor light nor certitude nor peace nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.