 Renaissance by Anna St. Vincent Millay, read for LibraVox.org by Eva Davis. All I could see from where I stood was three long mountains and a wood. I turned and looked another way and saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line of the horizon thin and fine straight around till I was come back to where I'd started from. And all I saw from where I stood was three long mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see, these were the things that bounded me, and I could touch them with my hand almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small my breath came short and scarce at all. But sure the sky is big, I said, miles and miles above my head. So here upon my back I'll lie and look my fill into the sky. And so I looked and, after all, the sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop and sure enough I see the top. The sky, I thought, is not so grand. I almost could touch it with my hand and reaching up my hand to try. I screamed to feel it touch the sky. I screamed and low infinity came down and settled over me, forced back my scream into my chest, bent back my arm upon my breast, and pressing of the undefined the definition on my mind held up before my eyes a glass through which my shrinking sight did pass, until it seemed I must behold immensity made manifold. Whispered to me a word who sound deafened there for worlds around, and brought unmuffled to my ears the gossiping of friendly spheres, the creaking of the tinted sky, the ticking of eternity. I saw and heard and knew at last the how and why of all things past and present, and forevermore the universe cleft to the core lay open to my probing sense that sickening I would feign pluck thence but could not nay, these must suck the great wound and could not pluck my lips away till I had drawn all then'em out. Ha, fearful pawn! For my omniscience paid I toll in infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all atoning mine, and mine the gall of all regret. Mine was the weight of every brooded wrong, the hate that stood behind each envious thrust. Mine all greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief each suffering I craved relief with individual desire, craved all in vain, and felt fierce fire about a thousand people crawl, perished with each, then mourned for all. A man was starving in capri, he moved his eyes and looked at me. I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, and knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank between two ships that struck and sank, a thousand screams that have in smote, and every scream tore through my throat. No hurt I did not feel, no death that was not mine, mine each last breath that, crying, meant an answering cry, from the compassion that was I. I'll suffering mine, and mine its rod, mine pity, like the pity of God. Oh, awful weight, infinity, pressed down upon the finite me. My anguished spirit, like a bird, beating against my lips I heard, yet lay the weight so close about there was no room for it without, and so beneath the weight lay I, and suffered death, but could not die. Long had I lain thus, craving death, when quietly the earth beneath gave way, an inch by inch so great at last had grown the crushing weight. Into the earth I sank till I, full six feet underground, did lie, and sank no more. There is no weight can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, and as it went my tortured soul burst forth and fled in such a gust that all about me swirled the dust. Deep in the earth I rested now, cool as its hand upon the brow, and soft its breast beneath the head of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all the pitying rain began to fall, I lay and heard each pattering hoof upon my lowly thatched roof, and seemed to love the sound far more than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound to one who's six feet underground, and scarce the friendly voice for face, a grave is such a quiet place. The rain, I said, is kind to come and speak to me in my new home. I would, I were alive again to kiss the fingers of the rain, to drink into my eyes the shine of every slanting silver line, to catch the freshened, fragrant breeze from drenched and dripping apple trees. For soon the shower will be done, and then the broad face of the sun will laugh above the rain-soaked earth, until the world with answering mirth shakes joyously, and each round drop rolls twinkling from its grass-blade top. How can I bear it, buried here, while overhead the sky grows clear and blue again after the storm? Oh, multi-coloured, multi-form, beloved beauty over me, that I shall never, never see again. Spring-silver, autumn-gold, that I shall never more behold, sleeping your myriad magics through, close sepulchred, away from you. Oh, God, I cried, give me new berth, and put me back upon the earth. Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd, and let the heavy rain downpour'd in one big torrent set me free, washing my grave away from me. I ceased, and through the breathless hush that answered me, the far-off rush of herald wings came whispering like music down the vibrant string of my ascending prayer and crash. Before the wild winds whistling lashed, the startled storm clouds reared on high and plunged in terror down the sky, and the big rain in one black wave fell from the sky and struck my grave. I know not how such things can be. I only know there came to me a fragrance such as never clings to art save happy living things, a sound as of some joyous elf singing sweet songs to please himself, and through and over everything a sense of glad awakening, the grass a tiptoe at my ear whispering to me I could hear. I felt the rain's cool fingertips brushed tenderly across my lips, laid gently on my seal at sight, and all at once the heavy night fell from my eyes and I could see a drenched and dripping apple tree, a last long line of silver rain, a sky grown clear and blue again, and as I looked a quickening gust of wind blew up to me and thrust into my face a miracle of orchard breath, and with the smell I know not how such things can be. I breathed my soul back into me. Up then from the ground sprang I inhaled the earth with such a cry as not as heard save from a man who has been dead and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound like one gone mad I hugged the ground. I raised my quivering arms on high I laughed and laughed into the sky till at my throat a strangling sob caught fiercely and a great heart throbs an instant tears into my eyes. Oh God, I cried, no dark disguise can air her after hide from me thy radiant identity. Thou canst not move across the grass, but my quick eyes will see thee pass, nor speak, however silently, but my hushed voice will answer thee. I know the path that tells thy way through the cool eve of every day. Oh God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on my heart. The world stands out on either side, no wider than the heart is wide. Above the world is stretched the sky, no higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land farther away on either hand. The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through. But east and west will pinch the heart that cannot keep them pushed apart and he whose soul is flat the sky will cave in on him by and by. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 3 by John Wilson, read for LibriVox.org by Delena. Written at midnight on Helm Crag. Go up among the mountains when the storm of midnight howls but go in that wild mood when the soul loves tumultuous solitude and through the haunted air each giant form of swinging pine, black rock or ghostly cloud that fails some fearful cataract tumbling loud seems to thy breathless heart with life imbued amid those gaunt shapeless things thou art alone. The mind exists, thinks trembles through the ear, the memory of the human world is gone and time and space seem living only here. Oh, worship thou the visions then made known while sable glooms round nature's temple roll and her dread anthem peels into thy soul. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 2 by John Wilson, read for LibriVox.org by Delena. Written on the banks of washed water during a calm. Is this the lake, the cradle of the storms where silence never tames the mountain roar where poets fear their self-created forms or sunk and trans severe their God adore? Is this the lake, forever dark and loud with wave and tempest, cataract and cloud? Wondrous, oh nature, is thy sovereign power that gives the horror hours of peaceful mirth for here might beauty build her summer bower. Low, where you rainbow spans the smiling earth and clothed in glory through a silent shower the mighty sun comes forth a god-like birth while, neath his loving eye, the gentle lake lies like a sleeping child too blessed to wake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 1 by John Wilson, read for LibriVox.org by Delena. Written on the banks of washed water during a storm. There is a lake hid far among the hills that raves around the throne of solitude not fed by gentle streams or playful rills but headlong cataract and rushing flood there gleam no lovely hues of hanging wood no spot of sunshine lights her cell inside for horror shaped the wild and wrathful mood and or the tempest heave the mountains pride if thou art won in dark presumption blind who vainly deems no spirit like to thine that lofty genius deifies thy mind fall prostrate here at nature's stormy shrine and as the thunderous scene disturbs thy heart lift thy change at eye and own how low thou art. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Spring Wind in London by Catherine Mansfield read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. I blow across the stagnant world I blow across the sea for me the sailors flag unfurled for me the uprooted tree my challenge to the world is hurled the world must bow to me I drive the clouds across the sky I huddle them like sheep merciless shepherd dog am I and shepherd watch I keep if in the quiet veils they lie I blow them up the steep low in the treetops do I hide in every living thing on the moon's yellow wings I glide on the wild rose I swing on the seahorses back I ride and what then do I bring and when a little child is ill I pass and with my hand I wave the window curtains frill that he may understand outside the wind is blowing still it is a pleasant land oh stranger in a foreign place see what I bring to you this rain is tears upon your face I tell you, tell you true I came from that forgotten place where once the wattle grew all the wild sweetness of the flower tangled against the wall it was that magic silent hour the branches grew so tall they twined themselves into a bower the sun shone and the fall of yellow blossom on the grass you feel that golden rain both of you could not hold alas both of you tried in vain a memory, stranger so I pass it will not come again 1909 end of poem this recording is in the public domain we slowly drove, he knew no haste and I had put away my labour and my leisure too for his civility we passed the school where children strove at recess in the ring we passed the fields of gazing grain we passed the setting sun or rather he passed us the dews drew quivering and chill for only gossamer my gown my tippet only tool we paused before a house that seemed the roof was scarcely visible the cornice in the ground since then, to centuries and yet feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horse's heads were to war at eternity end of poem this recording is in the public domain April 2019 though thorny the pathway neath our feet though nothing in life be left that sweet though friends prove faithless in trial's hour and love a cursed and poisonous flower though belial stalk and priestly gown and virtue's reward is fortune's frown though two hearts bleed and a coward's slave tramples in dust the fallen brave think not the unworthy acts of men will scape the recording angels pin the sword of God and ruin and wraith will surely fall o cling to thy faith though worldly wise say it cannot be that there is a heaven for thee and me though logics banner they have unfurled and by its cold light now view the world calling high God to the courts of man rejudged by human reasons span and failing to grasp the power divine will blindly assert it doth not shine thy mother was wiser for than they in twilight hour when she knelt to pray a radiant light on her sweet face from eternal God's high dwelling place low here, low here the false prophets cry pointing out new paths unto the sky far pleasanter than our father's trod with bleeding feet in the fear of God while atheists laugh our faith to scorn and say that no man of woman born ever pierced the evil or caught a gleam of the mystic land beyond life stream that our fondest hopes, our prayers and sighs for life eternal beyond the skies are superstitions conceived in fear and cherished by priest and lying seer the martyr's blood, the penitent's tears the inspired word of Judea's seers the name of God on the sacred mount the river that poured from rocky fount in the burning sands beneath the rod obedient to the will of God the prayers and sighs in Gethsemane the red tide gushing on Calvary the radiant smile when life is done of saints that tell that heaven is one shall we say tis all appusely lie and like soulless beasts lie down to die ah, better to be to ride in mail a we request for the holy grail wield Saxon steel against Saracen sword around the sickle-cur of our lord see cross and crescent and mailed hand plashed with blood in that sacred land then doubt that heaven air shed its light we've been to this world's long, troublesome night that God hears our prayers, knows all our pains that earthly sorrows are heavenly gains that the grave is the gate to lasting life unsullied by sorrow, pain, and strife oh, better worship at pagan shrine or prophet of Islam in a dine to seek nirvana in Buddhist lore or pray to Isis on Africa's shore better the dark mysterious rites of series on Illusian heights better the gevers fear Scott of Fire oh, better to wake the trembling liar to any savior than to be hurled godless and hopeless out of the world to madly plunge in death's dark river lost to life and heaven forever in dark seas where whirlpool rages stands the eternal rock of ages in mid-dangers' dire, mid-wreck and wraith God plants the banner of Christian faith unworthy the sailor whose heart doth fail when the god of storms rides on the gale coward the soldier who shuns the grave and thrice accursed the trembling slave who in life's battles, darkest hour renounces God and denies his power then chant a foie through the bitter strife o' cling to the cross through death to life end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Tiger by William Blake read for LibriVox.org by Cornel Nemish Tiger Tiger burning bright in the forest of the night what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry in what distant depths or skies burnt the fire of zine eyes on what wings there he aspire what the hand there sees the fire and what shoulder and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart and when thy heart begun to beat what dread hand and what dread feet what the hammer what the chain in what furnace was thy brain what the anvil what dread grasp there its deadly terror's clasp when the stars throw down their spears and watered heaven with their tears did he smile his work to see did he who made the lamb make the Tiger Tiger burning bright in the forest of the night what immortal hand or eye there frame thy fearful symmetry end of poem this recording is in the public domain A Voice on the Wind by Madison K. Wine read for LibreVox.org by Nima A Voice on the Wind she walks with the wind on the windy height when the rocks are loud and the waves are white and all night long she calls through the night oh my children come home the bleak gown torn as a tattered cloud tosses around her like a shroud while over the deep her voice rings loud oh my children come home come home oh my children come home who is she who wanders alone when the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown who walks all night and makes her moan oh my children come home whose face is raised to the blinding gale whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale while over the world goes by her wail oh my children come home come home oh my children come home she walks with the wind in the windy wood the dark rain drips from her hair and hood and her cries sobs by like a ghost pursued oh my children come home where the trees loom gaunt in the rock stretch drear the owl on the fox crouch back in fear as wild through the wood her voice they hear oh my children come home come home oh my children come home who is she who shutters by when the bows blow bare and the dead leaves fly who walks all night with her wailing cry oh my children come home who strange of look and wild of tongue with wan feet wounded and hands wild rung sweeps on and on with her cry far flung oh my children come home come home oh my children come home does the spirit of autumn no man sees the mother of death and of mysteries who cries on the wind all night to these oh my children come home the spirit of autumn pierced with pain calling her children home again death and dreams through ruin and rain oh my children come home come home oh my children come home and a poem this recording is in the public domain war is a crime from the elegies of tubulus 55 bc to 19 bc read for LibriVox.org who air first forged the terror striking sword his own fierce heart had tempered like its blade what slaughter followed ah what conflict wild what swifter journeys unto dark some death but blame not him ourselves have madly turned on one another's breasts that cunning edge wherewith he meant mere blood of beast to spill gold makes our crime no need for plundering war when bowls of beech wood held the frugal feast no citadel was seen nor moated wall the shepherd chief led home his motley flock and slumbered free from care wood I had lived in that good golden time nor air had known a mob in arms arrayed nor felt my heart throb to the trumpets call now to the wars I must away we're happily some chance folk bears now the blade my naked side shall feel save me dear larrys of my hearth and home yoft my childish steps to guard and bless as timidly beneath your seat they strayed deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oak your simple emblems in my dwelling stand for so the pious generations gone revered your powers and with offerings rude to rough hewn gods in narrow-built taboids lived beautiful and honorable lives did they not bring to crown your hallowed brows garlands of ripened corn or poor new wine in pure libation on the Thursday ground often some votive day the father brought the consecrated loaf and close behind his little daughter in her virgin palm bore honey bright as gold oh powers benign to ye once more a faithful servant praise for safety let the deadly brazen spear pass harmless or my head and I will slay for sacrifice with many a thankful song a swine and all her brood while I the priest bearing devoted basket myrtle bound while closed in white with myrtle in my hair grant me but this and he who can may prove mighty in arms and by the grace of Mars lay shefton's low and let him tell the tale to me who drink his health while on the board his wine dipped finger draws line after line just how his trenches ranged what madness dire bits man go foraging for death in war our death is always near and our by our with soundless step a little nearer draws what harvest down below or vineyard green their Cerberus howls and or this digian flood the dark ship goes while on the clouded shore with hollow cheek and tresses lesterless wanders the ghostly throng oh happier far some white haired sire among his children dear beneath a lowly thatch his dirty son shepherds the young rams he his gentle use and off that eave his willing labor done his careful wife with weary limbs will bathe from a full steaming ball such lot be mine so let this head grow gray while I shall tell repeating off the deeds of long ago then may long peace my country's harvest bless till then let peace on all our fields abide bright vestured peace who first beneath their yoke led oxen in the plow who first the vine did nourish tenderly and chose good grapes that rare old wine may pass from sire to son peace who death keep the plow and herald bright while rust on some forgotten shelf devours the crew soldiers useless sword and shield from peaceful holiday with mirth and wine the rustic not half sober drive with home with wife and weans upon the lumbering wane but wars by venus kindle near have done the vanquished lass with tresses rudely torn of doors broke down and smitten cheek complains and he her victor lover weeps to see how strong were his wild hands but mocking love teaches more angry words and while they rave sits with the smile between oh heart of stone oh iron heart that with thy sweet heart strike ye gods avenger is it not enough to tear her soft robe from her limbs away and loose her knotted hair enough indeed to move her tears thrace happy is the white whose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see but he who gives her blows go let him bear a sword and spear in exile let him be from venus' mild domain come blessed peace come holding forth thy blade of ripened corn fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair and of poem this recording is in the public domain Wild Nights Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Wild Nights Wild Nights where I with thee Wild Nights should be our luxury futile the winds to a heart and port done with a compass done with a chart rowing in Eden ah the sea might I but more tonight in thee and of poem this recording is in the public domain The Winter's Spring by John Clare read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf The winter comes I walk alone I want no bird to sing to those who keep their hearts their own the winter is the spring no flowers to please no bees to hum the coming springs already come I never want the Christmas rose to come before its time the seasons each as God bestows are simple and sublime I love to see the snowstorming tis but the winter garb of spring I never want the grass to bloom the snowstorms best in white I love to see the tempest come and love its piercing light the dazzle dies that love to cling or snow white meadows sees the spring I love the snow the crumpling snow that hangs on everything it covers everything below like white doves brooding wing a landscape to the aching sight a vast expanse of dazzling light it is the foliage of the woods that winters bring the dress white Easter of the year in Bud that makes the winter spring the frost and snow his posies bring nature's white spurts of the spring and a poem this recording is in the public domain a word by G. K. Chesterton read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson a word came forth in Galilee a word like to a star it climbed in rang and blessed and burnt wherever brave hearts are a word of sudden secret hope of trial and increase of wrath and pity fused in fire and passion kissing peace a star that or the city world beckoned a sort of flame a star with myriad thunder's tongue a mighty word there came the wedges dart passed into it the groan of timberwains the ringing of the rivet nails the shrieking of the planes the hammering on the roofs at Morne the busy workshop war the hiss of shavings drifted deep along the windy floor the heat brown toilets cooning song the hum of human worth mingled of all the noise of crafts the ringing word went forth the splash of nets passed into it the grind of sand and shell the boat hooks clash the boat oars jar the cries to buy and sell the flapping of the landed shoals the canvas crackling free and through all varied notes and cries the roaring of the sea the noise of little lives and brave and needy lives and high in gathering all the throws of earth the living word went by earth's giant sins bow down to it in empire's huge eclipse when darkness sat above the throne's seven thunders on her lips the war of cities entered it the clang of idols falls the scream of filthy Caesar stabbed high in their brazen halls the dim horse hoods of naked men the world realms snapping girth the trumpets of apocalypse the darkness of the earth the rap that broke the eternal lamp and hid the eternal hill the world's destruction loading the word went onward still the blaze of creeds passed into it the hiss of horrid fires the headlong spear the scarlet cross the hair shirt and the briars the cloister brethren's thunder shot the errant champion song the shifting of the crowns and thrones the tangle of the strong the shattering fall of crest and crown and shields and cross and cope the tearing of the gods of time the blighted prince and pope the reign of ragged millions lead to wrench a loaded debt loud with the many-throated roar the word went forward yet the song of wheels passed into it the roaring and the smoke the riddle and the want of wage the fogs that burn and choke the breaking of the girths of gold the needs that crept and swell the strengthening hope the dazing light the deafening evangel through kingdoms dead and empires damned through changes without cease with earthquake chaos born and fed rose and the word was peace in the poem this recording is in the public domain written in March by William Wordsworth read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shamp while resting on the bridge at the foot of brother's water the cock is crowing the stream is flowing the small birds twitter the lake doth glitter the greenfield sleeps in the sun the oldest and youngest are at work with the strongest the cattle are grazing their heads never raising there are 40 feeding like one like an army defeated the snow hath retreated and now doth fair ill on the top of the bear hill the plow boy is whooping anon anon there's joy in the mountains there's life in the fountains small clouds are sailing blue sky prevailing the rain is over and gone in the poem this recording is in the public domain