 A letter from a girl to her own old age, by Alice Maynall, read for LibriVox.org by Bob Sherman. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses what thy thin fingers touch with her caresses. O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, and from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn his grey in heaven, Does thou remember how the clouds were driven? And are they calm about the fall of even? Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation. For O silent one, that I remind thee of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander, Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph Of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, oh hush, thy tears, my words are steeping, O hush, hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping, Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter that breaks thy heart, The one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With fillial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter from a girl to her own old age by Alice Manel. Read for LibriVox.org by Derek Beaver, July 13th, 2009. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses, What thy thin fingers touch with her caresses, O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn as grey in heaven, Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of heaven? Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation. Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not will follow with thee, Where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And when with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, O hush, thy tears my words are Steeping, O hush, hush, hush. So full the fount of weeping, Poor eyes so quickly move so near to sleeping. Within the girl such strange desires beset her, Poor woman lay aside the mournful letter, That breaks thy heart the one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. A letter from a girl to her own old age by Alice Menall, read for LibriWalks.org by Diana Shen, and it's 12th of July 2009, Singapore. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses, O thy thin fingers touch with her caresses, O mother for the weight of years that break thee. O daughter, for slow time must you'd awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee, O feinting traveler, moments grey in heaven, Just how remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of even. Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation, Appeal to one hour of thy meditation, Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have designed thee. Know that the mournful plain, Where thou must wander, is but a grey and silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain tops besetting, I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not, Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of mountains grow not, But let my letter with thou lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And when with thee the goal went how shall win it. I have not read this letter of divining, To make a glory of thy silent pinning, A trimp of thy mute and strange declining, Only one ureth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age, with all regrets, is clouded. Oh hush, oh hush, That tears my words are steeping, Oh hush, hush, hush, So full the fount of weeping, Poor eyes so quickly moved, So near to sleeping, But in the girl, strange desires beset her, Poor woman lay aside the mournful letter, That breaks the heart, the one who wrote, Forget her, The one who now thy faded feature guesses, That fully held fingers thy gray hair caresses, That mourning tears thy mournful tooled glasses. A letter from a girl to her own old age by Alice Maynell, read for LibreVox.org by Elvira Schaar. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time one woman think of her who blesses, What thy thin fingers touch with her caresses, O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveler, mourn is gray in heaven, Does thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they claim about full of even, Pulse near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation, Suffer o silent one that I remind thee, Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild wings of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain will thou must water, It's but a gray and silent world, But ponder this misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain wings with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain tops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not, Will follow with thee well the great wings blow not, And well the young flowers of the mountain grow not? Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it. All were the way was when thou desert began it, And wing with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not read this letter of divining, To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strength declining. Only one youth and a bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and a day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, O hush, Thy tears my words are stipping. O hush, hush, hush. So full, the fount of weeping, Poor eyes so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart, the one who wrote, Forget her, the one who now thy faded futures gases, With filial fingers thy gray hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Mannell, read for LibreVox.org by Iswa in Belgium in July 2009. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses what thy thin fingers touch with her caresses. O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn his gray in heaven, Does thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of even? As near the ending of thy long migration, For this once at an hour of desolation appeals To one hour of thy meditation. Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a gray and silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops' besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not? Let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not read this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning, and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, o hush, thy tears my words are steeping. O hush, hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping? Poor eyes so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her. Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter that breaks thy heart. The one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features gases, With filial fingers thy gray hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Maynill, read for Libervox.org, by Heather Nix. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time, warn woman, think of her who blesses, What thy thin fingers touch with her caresses. O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for the slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveler, mourn his gray in heaven, Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of Avon? Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour thy meditation. Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee, Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain, Where thou must wander, is but a gray in silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting, I could not let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not will fall over thee, For the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter, with thy lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And when with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not rid this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning, and the day was clouded, And one old age, with all regrets, was crowded. Oh hush, oh hush, thy tears my words are steeping, Oh hush, hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping, Poor eye so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay aside that mournful letter, That breaks thy heart, the one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Maynell. Read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry. Then and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses, What thy thin fingers touch with her caresses, O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn is grey in heaven, Does thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of even? Was near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation, appeals to one hour of thy meditation? Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee, Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander, Is but a grey and silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen! The mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain tops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not, Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not writ this letter of divining, To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph of thy mutant strange declining. Only one youth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, O hush, thy tears my words are steeping, O hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping, Your eyes so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart, the one who wrote, Forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With fillial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Mennell, read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch with her caresses. O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn is grey in heaven, Thus thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of even. Because near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation appeals To one hour of thy meditation. Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. Not part of this wild heart of mine, I know not, Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it, Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph Of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, o hush, Thy tears my words are steeping, O hush, hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping, Poor eyes so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart, the one who wrote, Forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Menel, read Philip Rebox.org by Rebyn Notation. Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses, Let thy thin fingers touch with her caresses. O mother, for the weight of years that break thee, O daughter, for the slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveller, mourn is grey in heaven. Does thou remember how the clouds were driven, And are they calm about the fall of even? Because near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation appeals To one hour of thy meditation, Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee, Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, But ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not, Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not? Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou did begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. I have not read this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, a triumph Of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth and the bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and the day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. O hush, thy tears my words are steeping, O hush, hush, hush, so full the fount of weeping, Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping. Pardon the girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter that breaks thy heart, The one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With the lial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With mourning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. A letter from a girl to her own old age, By Alice Menow, read for LibberVas.org by Semantic Noirons. Listen, and when thy hand with paper presses, Oh, time-warm woman, think of her who blesses, And lie thin fingers touch with her caresses, Oh, mother, for the rain of years that break thee, Oh, daughter, for a slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee. O fainting traveler, mourn its grey in heaven, Does lull remember how the clouds were driven? Would early come about the fall of heaven? Pause near the ending of thy low migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation appeals to one hour of lying meditation. Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that storm the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. Know that the mournful plan where lulled Mr. Wonder is but a grey and silent world but ponder the misty mountains of the morning yonder. Listen, the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountaintops besetting, I cannot let thee fade to death forgetting. What part of this wild heart of mine I know not, Will follow with thee where the great wings blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not, Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it, Till what the way was without this beginning it, And when we see the goal when thou shalt win it, I have not read this letter of divining To make glory of life silent pining, A triumph of life mute and strange declining. Only one youth and a bright life was shrouded, Only one morning and a day was clouded, And one old age with all regrets is crowded. Oh hush, oh hush, Like tears my words are steeping, Oh hush, hush, hush, So full the fount of weeping, Pride so quickly moved so near to sleeping. Partly girl, such strange desires beset her, Poor woman, lay a silent mournful letter that breaks my heart, The one who wrote, forget her. The one who now life faded features guesses, With thin little fingers like gray hair dresses, With mourning tears like mournful twilight glasses. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.