 The White Canoe, and other verse by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. THE WHITE CANOE There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees, and a murmuring wash on the shore, and a breath of the south in the loitering breeze, to tell that a winter is o'er. While free at last from its fetters of ice, the river is clear and blue, and cries with a tremulous, quivering voice for the launch of the white canoe. O gently the ripples will kiss her side, and tenderly bear her on, for she is the wandering phantom bride of the river she rests upon. She is loved with a love that cannot forget a passion so strong and true, that never a billow has risen yet to peril the white canoe. So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky, and the echoes are sweet and low, and nature is full of the mystery that none but her children know. Come taste of the rest that the weary crave but is only revealed to a few. When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave of float in the white canoe. Tonight, sweetheart, when all about me lay in shadow deep the wood, I felt my soul within me reel and sway, and pulse my sluggish blood, as when along a quiet, land-locked bay swells some resistless flood. My spirit leapt from out its earthly prism, higher and ever higher, until it reached those barriers alitions where the eternal fire creates one great, impassable division, tweaks us and our desire. Up till it left the regions of the night of sorrow and of fear, emerging into that soft mellow light that radiance, pure and clear, where love reigns all supreme and all is bright if only love be near. There, through sweet meadows on by brimming streams, wandered my soul at will and saw such forms as haunt our loveliest dreams and waking haunt us still. Voices like music, smiles like sunny beams, lost in a rippling reel. But ah, my soul saw one supremely fair, one form the most divine, one face and haloed all with golden hair, in beauty most benign, surpassing all the perfect beauty there. Heart of my heart, twas thine, my soul went forth, but all grew strange and dim, meadow and stream were gone. I heard a sound as of a far-off hymn, by night winds softly blown, then all around me seemed to sink and swim, and I am here, alone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Question By Alan Sullivan Read for LibriVox.org Pale moon, whose tranquil orb resplendent sails the ethereal main, thy curved prow forever braving the celestial gales, serene and slow. Myriads of stars that ever dot the blue great fault of heaven, eyes that keep eternal watch, unshaken, strong and true, yet never sleep. Ye southern zephyrs, redolent with balm of myrtle, orange and the rose, blowing from islands where the fronded palm in beauty grows. Wind of the north, whose trumpet voice can shake the shattering echoes of the cave, storm-born, blast-driven, thou whose breath doth make the mighty wave, perpetual fire, whose never-dying flame consumes the glowing heart of earth, until a wide destruction shall proclaim a second birth. Tell me, O mighty concourse, have ye seen in all this great infinity of worlds unborn and planets that have been a place for me? This recording is in the public domain. Confession, Creed and Prayer by Alan Sullivan read for LibriVox.org Silent around me, a cathedral dim, still throbbing with the echoes of a hymn, lifted its ghostly arches great and grim. Slowly the worshippers had filed away, untenanted the vacant cloisters lay, as even followed on the steps of day. But one remained who bent his reverent head where graven figures slumber with the dead, and spake with faltering accents, and he said, Light, more light, great Father, give me light. I cannot see my way, so dark the night my finite heart shrinks from the infinite. Anon the shadow lifts, my straining eyes one moment see that which before me lies. This fades, and newborn hope within me dies. I looked for sunshine, yet there cometh rain. My sweetest pleasure turneth into pain. I would sink back to nothingness again. Beliefs are but perpetual ideas. The gospel worketh only on my fears, in bitterness and sorrow, void of tears. In one God I believe, eternally omnipotent and present, and that he rules heaven and hell, the earth, the sky, the sea. As carnal life by carnal love is given, so life divine by love divine is proven, of which the fountain head is God in heaven, that since each body is the fleshly home of something better, something not our own, so God all faults but foulness will condone. For I believe impurity is sin against the spirit life that dwells within, creating Father and created men, that every soul is judged true and well according to the light that on it fell, no light, no judgment, strong light, heaven or hell. All this and more, great Father I have heard of thy dear son, my heart expectant stirred to welcome him, confessing I had heard. Nay, said humanity within me, nay, I cannot grasp this mystery, so stay until I comprehend and I obey. Thy word yet cannot, herein lies my grief, thy sons bake comfort to the dying thief, so speak to me and help mine unbelief. Hear the voice faltered, ceased, God, cannot be the mourn has dawned on him and not on me. Is this the publican, I, Pharisee? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To My Pipe by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. Others their nectar from the goblet sip, I draw sweet psalus from thine amber lip, a feast of reason and a flow of soul, lurk in the perfumed vapors of thy bowl. Some scoff and say I err from nature's rules, tobacco's poison, but friend, some are fools. If times are hard, no comrade like to thee, if prosperous, there it the priest of jollity. Browned in my service, silver rimmed through age, thy smoldering fire, reflections heritage. When the day comes, old friend, and I'm dead broke, then just one puff will both go up in smoke. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Supposing by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. He. Supposing that when we were wed, love, and two were reduced into one, that a hot-tempered word should be said, love, and thoughtlessly mischief be done, that you should be proud and offended, and I should be heartless and cold. Do you think that our peace would be ended? The tale of our happiness told. Supposing that children should come, love, it may be a girl and a boy, and my heart should go forth to the one love, the other your pride and your joy. Do you think that although so divided, yet we still, in our plans, could agree, and always the best be provided, for our dear ones by you and by me? Supposing that times were so bad, love, that ends couldn't possibly meet, and I should get weary and sad, love, while you were still hopeful and sweet. Do you think you'd in spirit and cheer me, and help me to weather the gale, that your presence would ever be near me, your courage not falter or fail? She. Supposing, you darling old stupid, that all this should happen and more, do you think that the youngster called Cupid would fly and his reign would be o'er? No, the bond of affection would stay, dear, independent of pocket or purse. As a wife I would honor, obey, dear, and love you for better, for worse. you and me ever drifting spellbound silent down a shimmering track of light, while around the gloom was throbbing with the mystery of night. Mute our lips what need of speaking, but our hard cords were as tense as a bowstring stretched to breaking. Every look was eloquence, till my soul had burst its barriers, and I told you my desire, told of love, undying passion, strong as ocean, pure as fire. You nor moved, nor sighed, nor answered, pale your cheek was as your dress, but the golden lashes drooping gave response, and it was, yes, that was five long years ago, dear. Can you hear me as I speak? For again I see the lashes falling on a pallid cheek. Still and ah, so silent, sleeping, motionless, you take your rest. I've your pledge of love beside me, and your image in my breast. Just one golden head you gave me, little one, with eyes of blue. See, she nestles to my shoulder. Darling, can you see us too? Lullaby. Sleep, little one, sleep. Safe and strong is thy father's arm. He will guard thee from every harm. Soothe thee with kisses, soft and warm. Sleep, little one, sleep. Sleep, little one, sleep. Close the lids on the wandering eyes, deep and blue as the summer skies. Far in the west the sunset dies. Sleep, little one, sleep. Sleep, little one, sleep. Thou art more than the world to me. O my life shall be spent for thee, till nature comes with her lullaby. Sleep, little one, sleep. Once long ago, a summer night in June, when earth lay still, beneath the raining moon, and never sound or rustle in the wood, save the dull thunder of a far-off flood, hurling itself in ruin to the deep, or a great gulf, I lay and strove to sleep. The stars were out, I watched with aching eye, their slow grand march across a cloudless sky. But rest came not. When suddenly I heard, far in the slumbering forest, one lone bird give three sweet calls, as if in pure delight to fling its soul in music through the night. Like a cool hand upon a fevered brow came that dear song, all fear had vanished now, steady my pulse, sunk in oblivion's arms, forgetful as a child of past alarms. Ye who have doubts, who is it has them not? Ye who have fears, and troubled anxious thought, when the storm lulls will, if ye list aright, hear a bird singing in your darkest night. Then I read, clear writ as in a book or chart, the vast futurity, with all its joy and grief, success and failure, love, hate, unbelief and faith, and that blind parting at the last, where at my soul recoiled, nor could it bear to muse on so much labour, better far not to have been, or else to be perchance like a dumb brute, existence without care or consciousness. But with the morning star I woke and thanked God for my ignorance. Thou, with the black stone stem, what of the past? Where are the cunning hands that fashioned thee? Where are the stern brown lips that placently drew comfort from thee, neath the towering mast of some old pine? Or patient to the last, toiled over thee? Perchance thou were to God, worshipped and feared by those whose feet trod the dim green aisles of that cathedral vast. But now thine incense rises, and I see the still north land, and hear the otter dive, the rapids calling, and the great trout leap, and smoking here at Seymouth like to me as if some dead hands touched the hands alive, in token of the fellowship we keep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. ADVONDI AMOR by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. Silence again, sweetheart. The shadows grow. I watch the white stars climb into the sky. Hear the dull rapids softened lullaby in smothered thunder, brooding sweet and low. Catch in the east the pallid silver glow of a new moon that floating pure and clear in perfect promise of the fuller sphere dips this dim world in glory, mounting slow. Not always had the heavens such a charm. Last year the rapids were not half so sweet. The wind had not such rhythmic melody till love, love came, and fanned the cold heart warm, attuned to music chords still incomplete, and set the whole night whispering of thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Song of Life by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. It came through the fields of air. It came through the silent night, born low on a sigh of a western breeze, like the far-off voice of tumultuous seas in a tempest's waning might. I heard the wonderful song. It made its home in my breast. The music of all the world was there. It hushed all murmur of pain or care, a sum of infinite rest, ever more clear and pure, ever more strong and sweet till some kindred chord in the outer air in response to the melody throbbing there sang come to my restless feet. I heard the mysterious call. I rose and followed it straight, or many a mount, through many a dale, past blazing meadow and shady veil, to the sunset's rosy at gate, and never a halt or stop till the song I could scarcely hear. It had sunk to an echo, faint and dim, of some melodious wonderful hymn, so I knew that the end was near, lower and fainter yet, and more imperceptible still, as I journeyed on, but I climbed one day, with courage that faltered so steep the way, the crest of a long, long hill. There, far as the eye could scan, was not but the fathomless deep, while down at the crags great base the waves crept in and out of the blind black caves and whispered ever of sleep. I looked at my hair, twas white, my hands were bony and long. The years of my life had vanished and fled, though they seemed but days that had quickly sped in pursuit of that fugitive song. Then out of the ocean's heart came swelling a grand refrain, and threw it their pulsed and angelic voice. Now we're immortal, rejoice, thou hast come to thy rest again. The song that stole into thy breast was the song of an earthly love. It was but an echo, faint yet true, of that mightier song that is peeling through the musical halls above. Then prone on the storm-swept bluff, my face to a golden sky, the breezes played with my toil-stained dress, and I waited and prayed in my loneliness to taste of the worst and die. So out of the void a sound from the vast dim space a breath that fanned the flickering flame of life till it flared went out and ended the strife, I slept, and the sleep was death. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Voices by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. My heart within me stirred with a nameless trouble and dread of evil that should be tied, and a voice in my bosom said, What pause from this weary toiling? What end to this endless strife? The day bringeth not but labour, and death follows hard upon life. Ever I see the false one triumphing over the true, the foul out once the fair, the many oppressed by the few. Answer me, mortal master, after the battle is fought, six feet of earth for a couch may have a stone, then what? How could I answer my heart when suddenly in my breast there fell a hush as of a wind sinking at eve to rest? The voice within me was stilled, and I felt its murmuring cease, for somewhere out of infinity an angel had whispered, Peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fifty years hence. By Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. Again, twas night and on the wave the moon in silver lay, vanished had all the petty cares and troubles of the day, no sound in all the wide expanse, no rustle in the wood, save when some evening zephyr stirred in whispers on the flood, breathless and motionless she stood, unquestionably dumb. Twas as a world were waiting there, waiting for God to come. Then back through long dead years her heart winged its reflective flight to ponder childhood's days again, to muse unpassed delight. A mist came o'er her eyes, her gaze had spanned the white gulf o'er. Old voices spake, old scenes recurred, old friendship lived once more. Serene the skies, no fear, no care, no tempest and no storm, wild birds and sunshine in the air, and south winds sweet and warm. Ah, perfect youth, ah, perfect life, free as a cloud above, ah, fount when spring the purest hopes, whence flows the purest love. For if ambitions wildest dreams, success should crown, in truth the cups she holds were tasteless still beside the wine of youth. All silent now, ah, for the power again those tales to tell, to wake afresh those sleeping chords that memory loves so well. But echoing clear and low those notes that song we still may hear. For faintly yet its music floats in old age atmosphere. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Farewell to the White Canoe by Alan Sullivan, read for LibriVox.org. The summer is dead, for the air is chill, and winter is nigh again. The maples ablaze on each ruddy hill are dripping with crimson rain. Black dusk comes hard on the steps of day, the breath of the south that blue has turned to the north and bids me say, farewell to the White Canoe. How wildly she leapt at each measured stroke and mounted the curling swell, how the white foam hung at her boughs like smoke when the great waves rose and fell. No terror for her could attempt to find no wrath in a frowning sky. Her birth was the union of sea and wind, her life is a mystery. She swam like a ghost through the ghostly night that bowed but to her as queen. She sped like a wreath in the silver light or a spirit of things unseen. As a leaf in the autumn she sank to sleep by babbling ripples caressed and lay in the arms of the cradling deep on the river's responsive breast. The summer is dead, and alas no more may we wander alone and free. By still deep pools and the shadowy shore and the rapids soft lullaby. Farewell, farewell to the peace that lies in that solitude deep and blue, an answering voice from the great stream size. Farewell to the White Canoe. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of The White Canoe and Other Verse by Aaron Sullivan.