 BEAUTY AND BEAUTY by Rupert Brooke Red for LibriVox.org by Catherine Monakia When beauty and beauty meet, all naked fair to fair, The earth is crying sweet and scattering bright the air, Eddying, dizzying, closing round, With soft and drunken laughter, Veiling all that may befall, after, after. For beauty and beauty met, earth still a tremble there, And winds are scented yet, and memory soft the air, Buzzing, folding glints of light, And shreds of shadowy laughter, Not the tears that fill the years, after, after. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth, Red for LibriVox.org by Jeremy Dalton On the 21st of March 2007 in Dubai, of Englishnomad.com Earth has not anything to show more fair. Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty. This city now doth like a garment wear, The beauty of the morning, silent bear. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie, Open unto the fields and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill. Nairus or I never felt a calm so deep, The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dallions of the Eagles by Walt Whitman 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 Le Scal. Skirting the river road, my forenoon walk, my rest, Skyward in air, a sudden meffle sound, The Dallions of the Eagles, The rushing amorals contact high in space together, The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, Girating wheel, four beating wings, two beaks, A swirling mass, tight grappling, In tumbling, turning, clustering loops, Straight downward falling, till over the river poised, The twain yet won, a moment's lull, Emotionless still balance in the air, And parting, talents losing, Upward again, on slow-film pinion slanting, There's a parrot devours flight, She hears, he hears, pursuant. End of The Dallions of the Eagles. Excelsior by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Read for LibriVox.org by Squid Vashilakova Found at frisco-squid.blogspot.com Excelsior The shades of night were falling fast, As through an alpine village, past a youth Who bore amidst snow and ice, A banner with a strange device. Excelsior His brow was sad, his eye beneath flashed Like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright, Above the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan. Excelsior Try not the paths, the old man said, Dark low as the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide, And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior O stay, the maiden said, And rest thy weary head upon this breast. A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered with a sigh. Excelsior Beware the pine trees withered branch, Beware the awful avalanche! This was the peasant's last good night, A voice replied far up the height. Excelsior At break of day, as heaven word, The pious monks of Saint Bernard uttered the afterpeded prayer, A voice cried through the startled air. Excelsior A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice, That banner with the strange device. Excelsior There in the twilight, cold and gray, Lifeless but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice felt like a falling star. Excelsior End of poem This poem is in the public domain. Go seek her out all courteously, By James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, Narrated by Sean McKinley. Go seek her out all courteously, And say, I come, wind of spices, Whose song is ever epithelamium, O hurry over the dark lands, And run upon the sea, For seas and lands shall not divide us, My love and me. Now, wind of your good courtesy, I pray you go, And come into her little garden, And sing at her window. Singing, the bridal wind is blowing, For love is at his noon, And soon will your true love be with you, Soon, oh soon. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Hero Worship by Amy Lowell. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Hero Worship. A face seen passing in a crowded street, A voice heard singing music large and free, And from that moment life has changed, And we become of more heroic temper, Meet to freely ask and give, A man complete radiant because of faith, We dare to be what nature meant us, Brave idolatry which can conceive a hero, No deceit, no knowledge taught by unrelenting years, Can quench this fierce untameable desire. We know that what we long for once achieve will cease to satisfy, Be still our fears, if what we worship fail us, Still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. High Waving Heather, Neath Stormy Blast Spending by Emily Prunty. Read for LibriVox.org by Catherine Spencer Howard. March 2007. High Waving Heather, Neath Stormy Blast Spending Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars All down the mountain sides, Wild forests Lending one mighty voice to the life-giving wind Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending Wider and deeper their waters extending Leaving a desolate desert behind Shining and lowering and swelling and dying Changing forever from midnight to noon Roaring like thunder like soft music sighing Shadows on shadows advancing and flying Lightning bright flashes the deep gloom defying Coming as swiftly and fading as soon End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Indian Summer by Emily Dickinson. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. These are the days when birds come back. A very few, a bird or two, to take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June. A blue and gold mistake. Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee. Almost the plausibility induces my belief. Till ranks of seed their witness bear. And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf. Oh, sacrament of summer days. Oh, last communion in the haze. Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake. Thy consecrated bread to break. Taste thine immortal wine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Unlikeliest Places by Henry Heldruth Piper. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. In Unlikeliest Places. I looked for the fair fringe gentian, and the haunts were once it grew, but I found no trace in the Likeliest Place, though I searched till the falling dew. So back I turned to the city, and was nearing the busy throng, when the waning light revealed to my sight the flower I had sought so long. I was weary and full of this quiet, I longed for the highest and best, and I failed to find, and the friends once kind, an answer which gave me rest. But there came to me in my trouble a friend I had cast aside, and I thought of the day when the dusty way could give what the field denied. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I Know Not How It Falls On Me by Emily Bronte. Read for LibriVox.org by Catherine Monakia. I Know Not How It Falls On Me. This summer evening, hushed and lone. Yet the faint wind comes soothingly, with something of an olden tone. Forgive me if I've shunned so long, your gentle greeting, earth and air. But sorrow withers, aim the strong, and who can fight against despair? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Little Elf by John Kendrick Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Avery. I met a Little Elf man once, down with a Lily's blow. I asked him why he was so small, and why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned and with his eye he looked me through and through. I'm quite as big for me, said he, as you are big for you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On An Unsociable Family by Elizabeth Hans. Read for LibriVox.org by Chris Martin. Oh, what a strange parcel of creatures are we? Scarce ever to quarrel or even agree. We all are alone, though at home altogether, except to the fire constrained by the weather. Then one says, tis cold, which we all of us know, and with unanimity answered, tis so. With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire and shuffle ourselves in our chairs a bit nyer, and quickly proceeded by silence profound, a yawn, epidemical catches around. Like social companions we never fall out, nor ever care what one another is about. To comfort each other is never our plan, for to please ourselves truly is more than we can. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh, Sweet Spontaneous by E.E. Cummings. Read for LibriVox.org by Melanie Hamilton. 18 March 2007, Sacramento, California. Oh, sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of purient philosophers pinched and poked thee has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty. How often have religions taken thee upon their scraggie knees, squeezing and buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive gods. But true to the incomparable couch of death, thy rhythmic lover, thou answerest them only with spring. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Poor Earth by Eleanor Wiley. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Poor Earth. It is not heaven, bitter seed leavens as entrails with despair. It is a star where dragons breed. Devils have a footing there. The sky has bent it out of shape. The sun has strapped it to his wheel. Its course is crooked to escape traps and gins of stone and steel. It balances on air and spends snared by strong transparent space. I forgive it all its sins. I kiss the scars upon its face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Psalm 91 from the World English Bible. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Leonie Rose. A Psalm by David. He who dwells in the secret place of the most high will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of Yahweh, he is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust. For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers. Under his wings you will take refuge. His faithfulness is your shield and rampart. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that wasted noonday. A thousand may fall at your side and ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only look with your eyes and see the recompense of the wicked. Because you have made Yahweh your refuge and the most high your dwelling place, no evil shall happen to you. Neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. For he will put his angels in charge of you to guard you in all your ways. They will bear you up in their hands so that you won't dash your foot against a stone. You will tread on the lion and cobra. You will trample the young lion and the serpent underfoot. Because he has set his love on me, therefore I will deliver him. I will set him on high because he has known my name. He will call on me and I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble. I will deliver him and honor him. I will satisfy him with long life and show him my salvation. End of Psalm 91. To A Withered Rose by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Avery. By span of life was all too short, a week or two at best, from budding time through blossoming to withering and rest. Yet compensation hest thou, I, for all thy little woes. For was it not thy happy lot to live and die a rose? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Voice of the Ancient Bard by William Blake. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Youth of delight, come hither and see the opening mourn. Image of truth newborn. Doubt is fled and clouds of reason, dark disputes and artful teasing. Folly is an endless maze, tangled roots perplex her ways. How many have fallen there? They stumble all night over bones of the dead and feel they know not what but care and wish to lead others when they should be led. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What Council Has the Hooded Moon by James Joyce? For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. What Council Has the Hooded Moon Put in Thy Heart? My shyly sweet. Of love and ancient penalune, glory and stars beneath his feet. A sage that is but kerth and kin with a comedian capuchin. Believe me, rather, that him wise in disregard of the divine, a glory kindles in those eyes, trembles to starlight, mine, oh, mine. No more be tears in moon or mist for thee, sweet, sentimentalist. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When We Too Parted by George Gordon Lord Byron? For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. When We Too Parted in Silence and Tears, half broken hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss. Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow. It felt like the warning of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken and light is thy fame. I hear thy name spoken and share in its shame. They name thee before me, a knell to my ear. A shudder comes o'er me. Why work thou so dear? They know not I knew thee who knew thee too well. Long, long shall I rue thee too deeply to tell. In secret we met, in silence I grieve that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee with silence and tears? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The world is too much with us by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox by Elizabeth Clett. The world is too much with us late and soon. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. Little we see in nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon. The sea that bears her bosom to the moon. The winds that will be howling at all hours and are up gathered now like sleeping flowers. For this, for everything, we are out of tune. It moves us not. Great God, I'd rather be a pagan, suckled in a creed outworn. So might I, standing on this pleasant lee, have glimpses that would make me less forlorn. Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. End of poem. This recording is in the