 THE ANSWER by George Blackstone Field Red for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Have you ever cursed at the master's work when life's been a sort of hell? If so, then perhaps you will understand the story I'm going to tell. There are chaps you know who have never seen the edge of a thing called life, and have never known of the challenge thrown in the darkness of the strike. There's a land we knew in the days of old when we trudged the wilderness, towards the land of pain, with the brand of cane, the home of the loneliness. We had cursed it off with the blackest curse, a reckless and godless lot, and headed our letters for going home, the country that God forgot. We had all been out since the early spring and things had been going wrong, and it seemed misfortune had dogged our trail each day as it dragged along. It appeared to be as an alien land, forsaken by God and man, till we heard the voice of the one who gave it birth when the world began. We had cursed that day more than air before, as fellows in anger do, and a storm that gathered above us broke, soaking us through and through. As we tramped it back to the lonely camp, it seemed the place was banned, and Brown, with an awful curse, had said, The devil controls the land. Then the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed with its wondrous lured glow, and we who had challenged the wilderness wandered the earth below. It seemed that a message was from above, the knowledge of endless things, the power that quickens the soul of man, and models the hearts of kings. I remember as though it were yesterday the lesson we learned that night, the answer that broke on our startled ears, the voice from the riven height, the God we had challenged with angry words was guarding and watching yet, and loving the wilderness we had cursed, the God who could not forget. He knew of the lonely location crew away in the shadowed past, he knew of the road we had come to build, reserving it to the last. He knew we would say he had long forgot the erred and thirsty land, but spoke from the heavens that night to show to us even as he had planned. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The A plus B Close Quantity Squared by Christopher Morley Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington Marriage is the square of A plus B, in other words, A squared plus B squared plus two AB, where two AB, of course, are twins. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. As do by many titles I resign, by John Dunn, Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. As do by many titles I resign myself to thee, O God! First I was made by thee, and for thee, and when I was decayed thy blood bought that the witch before was thine. I am thy son, made with thyself to shine, Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image, until I betrayed myself, a temple of thy spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay, ravish, that's thy right? Let thou rise, and for thine own work fight! Oh, I shall soon despair, when I shall see that thou lovest mankind well, yet wilt not choose me. And Satan hates me, yet is loath to lose me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Autumn Twilight, Gray and Gold by Arthur Simmons Read for LibriVox.org by Ian King The long September evening dies in mist along the fields and lanes. Only a few faint stars surprise the lingering twilight as it wanes. Night creeps across the darkening veil. On the horizon, tree by tree fades into shadowy skies, as pale as moonlight on a shadowy sea. And down the mist-infolded lanes, grown pensive now with evening, see lingering as the twilight wanes. Lover with lover wandering. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Ballad of Suicide from Poems by G. K. Chesterton Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman The gallows in my garden, people say, is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way, as one that knots his necktie for a ball. But just as all the neighbors, on the wall, are drawing a long breath to shout, Hooray! The strangest whim has seized me, after all. I think I will not hang myself to-day. Tomorrow is the time I get my pay. My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall. I see a little cloud, all pink and gray. Perhaps the rector's mother will not call. I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall that mushrooms could be cooked another way. I never read the works of juvenile. I think I will not hang myself to-day. The world will have another washing-day. The descendants decay. The pedants pawl. And H. G. Wells has found that children play. And George Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall. Rationalists are growing rational. And through thick woods one finds a stream, a stray. So secret that the very sky seems small. I think I will not hang myself to-day. Envoy. Prince, I can hear the trumpet of germinal. And the timbrels toiling up the terrible way. Even to-day your royal head may fall. I think I will not hang myself to-day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Churchbell by Eleanor Wiley. Read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner. The Churchbell. As I was lying in my bed, I heard the Churchbell ring. Before one solemn word was said, a bird began to sing. I heard a dog begin to bark. And a bold, crowing cock. The bell between the cold and dark told it was five o'clock. The Churchbell told, and the bird sang. A clear, true voice he had. The cock crew and the Churchbell rang. I knew it had gone mad. A hand reached down from the dark skies. It took the bell rope thong. The bell cried, Look, lift up your eyes. The clapper shook a song. The iron clapper laughed aloud, like clashing wind and wave. The bell cried out, Be strong and proud. Then, with a shite, be brave. The rumbling of the market carts, the pounding of men's feet, were drowned in a song. Lift up your hearts. The sound was loud and sweet. Slow and slow the great bell swung. It hung in the steeple mute. The people tore its living tongue out by the very root. And the form this recording is in the public domain. Darkness from the Burning Wheel by Aldous Huxley Red for LibriVox.org by Dale Groothman My close-walled soul has never known that innermost darkness, dazzling sight, like the blind point, quenched the vision spring in the core of the Glazer's cryolite. The mystic darkness that laps God's throne, in a splendor beyond imagining, so passing bright. But the many twisted darknesses that range the city to and fro, in aimless subtlety pass and part, and ebb and glutenously flow, darkness of lust and avarice, of the crippled body and the crooked heart. These darknesses I know. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dead King by Rudyard Kipling Red for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. Who in the realm today lays down dear life for the sake of the land, more dear? An unconcerned for his own estate. Toils till the last grudged sands have run. Let him approach. It is proven here. Our king asks nothing of any man more than our king himself has done. For to him above all was life good. Above all he commanded, her abundance full-handed. The peculiar treasure of kings was his for the taking. While that man come to and comes, he inherited waking. His marvel of world-gathered armies, one heart in all races. His seas neath his keels when his war castles foam to their places. The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing. The huge lighted cities adoring. The assemblies upstanding. The councils of kings called in haste to learn how he was minded. The kingdoms, the powers, and the glories he dealt with and blinded. To him came all captains of men, all achievers of glory. Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story. They revealed him a life in an hour and, saluting, departed. Joyful to laborer afresh he had made them new-hearted. And since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him, he spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him. And God poured him an exquisite wine that was daily renewed to him. And the clear, welling love of his peoples that daily accrued to him. Honor and service we gave him, rejoicingly, fearless. Faith absolute, trust beyond speech, and a friendship as peerless. And since he was master and servant of all that we asked him, we leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him. For on him each day laid command, every tyrannous hour to confront or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power, to deliver true judgment aright at the instant, unaided, in the strict level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded, to foresee, to allay, to avert from us, perils unnumbered. To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that our watchman had slumbered, to win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service, and mightily schooling his strength to the use of his nations, to rule as not ruling. These were the works of our king. Earth's peace is the proof of them. God gave him great works to fulfill, and to us the behoof of them. We accepted his toil as our right, none spared, none excused him. When he was bowed by his burden, his rest was refused him. We troubled his age with our weakness. The blacker our shame to us. He heard that his people had need of him. Straight away he came to us. As he received so he gave, nothing grudged, not denying. Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dying. For our sakes without question he put from him all that he cherished. Simply as any that served him, he served and he perished. All that king's covet was his, and he flung it aside for us. Simply as any that die in his service, he died for us. Who in the realm today has choice of the easy road, or the hard to tread, and much concern for his own estate would sell his soul to remain in the sun? Let him depart, nor look on our dead. Our king has nothing of any man more than our king himself has done. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Distant Voices by Dara Sigerson Shorter, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. I left my home for travelling because I heard the strange birds sing in foreign skies, and felt their wing brush past my soul impatiently. I saw the bloom on flower and tree that only grows beyond the sea. Me thought the distant voices speak more wisdom than near tongues can make. I followed lest my heart should break. And what is past is past and done. I dreamt, and here the dream begun. I saw a salmon in the sun leap from the river to the shore. Ah, strange mishap, so wounded soar, to his sweet stream, to turn no more. A bird from neath his mother's breast spread his weak wings in vain request, never again to reach his nest. I saw a blossom bloom too soon, upon a summer's afternoon, to ill breathe no more beneath the moon. I woke, warmed neath a foreign sky, where locust blossoms bud and die. Strange birds called to me, flashing by, and dusky faces passed and woke the echoes with the words they spoke. The same old tales as other folk. A truce to roaming, never more I'll leave the home I loved of yore. But strangers meet me at the door. I left my home still traveling, for yet I hear the strange birds sing, and foreign flowers rare perfumes bring. I hear a distant voice more wise than others are, neath foreign skies. I'll find, perhaps in paradise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This fierce condition of the mind, this proud ambition, should we ever dream again. And we'll do so, since tis plain, in this world's uncertain gleam, that to live is but to dream. Man dreams what he is, and wakes only when upon him breaks death's mysterious morning beam. The king dreams he is a king, and in this delusive way lives and rules with sovereign sway, all the cheers that round him ring, born of air, on air take wing. And in ashes, mournful fate, death dissolves his pride and state, who would wish a crown to take, seeing that he must awake in the dream beyond death's gate. And the rich man dreams of gold, gilding cares its scarce conceals, and the poor man dreams he feels want and misery and cold. Dreams he too who rank would hold, dreams who bears toils rough-ribbed hands, dreams who wrong for wrong demands, and in fine, throughout the earth, all men dream what ere their birth. And yet no one understands, tis a dream that I in sadness hear him bound, the scorn of fate, towards a dream that once a state I enjoyed of light and blackness. What is life, tis but a madness? What is life, a thing that seems, a mirage that falsely gleams? Phantom joy, delusive rest, sense is life a dream at best, and even dreams themselves are dreams. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To forget the thoughts that now line his brow, to fling off the load from his breast, and to see again, and to feel again, as he did in those days so blessed. He is not man who thinks not like this. He has lost his heart with its youth. He has flung away all his life's sweet flowers. He has lost all a young heart's truth. He is chained to dust, like an eagle flung by the storm to the frozen earth, and he lies there, draggled, and yet content, he has lost all his godlike worth. Can a man, amid the things that now press him and chain him down, with the many thoughts that now must be his, and when even life's pleasures frown, can a man behold all the eye must see, look at the earth as it is, and not turn again, and not sigh to win, for a moment lives early bliss. That bliss, this true, had its little cares, the youthful eye oft ran over, and the little heart, a frightened bird, beat till its wings were gore, and crushed was the hope, and checked the dream that offered the heart to bless. Still, with the years that have run away, there have run not life's miseries. Oh, for the dreams of the youthful mind, oh, for the thoughts that then, danced like the waves, flew like the light, beyond even an angel's skin. Oh, for the magic power that caught the light from heaven's burning throne, and flung it over this lovely world, till like heaven's own orb it shone. And the young mad dreams of the young mad boy, the wealth that the heart would win, the smile like heaven's, the eye a star, and the casket it trembled in. Oh, the pleasing forms hearts can conjure up, the life and loveliness that come in our dreams, live in our thoughts, and all that we deemed would bless. Tis true, we know, these are but dreams now, crushed are our hopes of fame, perish the light of the boy's gay world, its beauty is now a name. The heart now dances no more as won't, cold goes the blood and slow. But yet, tis sweet a moment here to dream, to us not always so. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake. How if our waking life, like that of sleep, be all a dream in that eternal life, to which we wake not till we sleep in death? How if, I say, the senses we now trust for date or sensible comparison, I, even the reason self that dates with them, should be in essence an intensity hereafter so transcended, and awake to a perception suddenly so keen as to confess themselves before, before, in all that now they will avouch for most. One man, like this, but only so much longer, as life is longer than a summer's day, believed himself a king upon his throne, and played at hazard with his fellow's lives, who cheaply dreamed away their lives to him, a sailor dreamed of tossing on the flood, a soldier of his laurels grown in blood, the lover of the beauty that he knew must yet dissolve to dusty residue, the merchant, and the miser of his bags of fingered gold, the beggar of his rags, and all this stage of earth on which we seem such busy actors, in the parts we played, substantial as the shadow of a shade, and a dreaming but a dream within a dream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dust of Snow by Robert Frost Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp The way a crow shook down on me the dust of snow from a hemlock tree has given my heart a change of mood, and saved some part of a day I had rude. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For me no rosy at garland's twine, by Henry Taylor Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist For me no rosy at garland's twine, but wear them, dearest, in my stead. Time has a whiter hand than thine, and lays it on my head enough to know thy place on earth is there where roses latest die to know the steps of youth and mirth are thine that pass me by. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For Two Birthdays by Aileen Kilmer Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Four Days After His 25th Birthday Whenever I light the candles for your birthday, my memory lights two more. Two ghostly candles, burning with your candles, where her is burned once before. Whenever I see you at your birthday table, across from you I see a gentle ghost that sits among us, laughing, laughing adorably. She would have been the gayest at the party, she always was the gladdest thing on earth, now she is gayer still, for she is taken into celestial mirth. With God and all the saints and all the angels, she shares her birthday cake, so let us keep your birthday candles burning, joyously, for her sake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Francis by Charlotte Bronte Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja Francis She will not sleep for fear of dreams, but rising quits her restless bed, and walks where some beclouded beams of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goat of grief, her steps now fast, now lingering slow, in varying motions seek relief from the humanities of woe. Ringing her hands at intervals, but long as mute as phantom dim, she glides along the dusky walls under the black o-crafters grim. The close air of the grated tower stifles a heart that scarce can beat, and though so late and low in the hour, forth pass her wandering, faltering feet. And on the pavement, spread before the long front of the mansion gray, her steps imprint the night-frost hall, which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon and shimmering stars could on her look, but through the garden archway soon her strange and gloomy path she took. Some first quievil with the tower, their straight black boughs stretched over her head. Unseen beneath this sable bower rustled her dress and rapid thread. There was an alcove in that shade, screening a rustic seat and stand, weary she set her down and laid, her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, some words she now in murmur said, and trickling through her fingers white, some tears of misery she shared. God help me in my grievous need, God help me in my inward pain, which cannot ask for pity's mead, which has no license to complain. Which must be borne, yet who can bear hours long, days long, a constant weight, the yoke of absolute despair, a suffering wholly desolate. Who can forever crush the heart, restrain its throbbing, curb its life, disemble truth with Cecil's art, without would calm, mask inward strife. She waited, as for some reply, the still and cloudy night gave none, e'erlong with deep-drawn trembling sigh, her heavy plain again begun. Unloved I love, unwept I weep, grief I restrain, hope I repress, vain is this anguish, fixed and deep, vainer desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes, no love again, my tears collect and fall unfelt, my sorrow touches none with pain, my humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, stone deaf and blank and wholly blind, life I must bound, existence some in the straight limits of one mind. That mind my own, own narrow cell, dark, imageless, a living tomb, there must I sleep, there wake and dwell, content with palsy, pain and gloom. Again she paused, a moan of pain, a stifled sob alone was heard, long silence followed, then again, her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. Must it be so, is this my fate, can I nor struggle nor contend, and am I doomed for years to wait watching death-lingering ex-descend? And when it falls, and when I die, what follows, vacant nothingness, the blank of lost identity, erasure both of pain and bliss? I've heard of heaven, I would believe, for if this earth indeed be all, who longest lives may deepest grieve, most blessed whom sorrow soonest call. Oh, leaving disappointment here, will men find hope on yonder coast, hope which on earth shines never clear, and often clouds is wholly lost? Will he hope source of light behold, fruition spring where doubts expire, and drink in waves of living gold, contentment full for long desire? Will he find bliss which here he dreamed, rest which was weariness on earth, knowledge which if o'er life it beamed, serve but to prove it void of worth? Will he find love without lusts leaven, love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, to all with equal bounty given, in all unfaigned, unfailing, sure? Will he, from penal sufferings free, release from shroud and wormy clod, all calm and glorious, rise and see, creation's sire, existence, God? Then glancing back on time's brief woes, will he behold them, fading, fly, swept from eternity's repose, like sallying cloud from pure blue sky? If so, endure my weary frame, and when thy anguish strikes too deep, and when all troubled burns life's flame, think of the quiet final sleep. Think of the glorious waking hour which will not dawn on grief and tears, but on a rancent spirit's power, certain and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, then from thy chamber calm descend, with mind nor tossed nor anguished horn, but tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see mementos on the chamber wall, of one who has forgotten thee, shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which welling from the heart burns where its drop corrosive falls, and makes each nerve in torture start, at feelings it too well recalls. When the sweet hope of being loved threw Eden's sunshine on life's way, when every sense and feeling proved expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive a thrilling clasp which seemed so near, and the heart ventured to believe, another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, were hourly heard as hourly spoken. When the long sunny days of bliss only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop the cup of joy, filled full with purple light, was glowing, and faith which watched it, sparkling high, still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, it poured not out like open sluice. No, sparkling still, and readily flashing, drained drop by drop the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, my eager lips approached the brim. The movement only seemed to waste it. It sank to drags, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they forever have poisoned life and love for me. A draught from Sodom's lake could never more fiery salt and bitter be. Oh, love was all a thin illusion, joy but the desert's flying stream, and glancing back on long delusion my memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet whence that wondrous change of feeling I never knew and cannot learn, nor why my lover's eye congealing grew cold and clouded, proud and stern, nor wherefore friendship's forms forgetting he careless left and cool withdrew, nor spoke of grief, nor font regretting, nor even one glance of comfort through, and neither word nor token sending of kindness since the parting day his course for distant region spending went self-contained and calm away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, which will not weaken, cannot die, hasten thy work of desolation, and let my tortured spirit fly. Vain as the passing gale my crying, though lightning struck, I must live on. I know at heart there is no dying of love and ruined hope alone. Still strong and young and warm with vigor, though scathed I long shall greenly grow, and many a storm of wildest rigor shall yet break over my shivered bow. Rebellious now to blank inertion my unused strength demands a task. Travel and toil and full exertion are the last, only boon, I ask. Once then this vain and barren dreaming of death and dubious life to come, I see a nearer beacon gleaming over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow tells me I yet have innate force. My track of life has been too narrow, effort shall trace a broader cause. The world is not in yonder tower, earth is not imprisoned in that room, mid whose dark panels, hour by hour, I've set, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling turned to utter anguish is not my being's only aim, when lawn and loveless life will languish, but courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, when deroving, to sunny climbs beyond the sea, and I, the weight of woe, removing, am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, may once more wake the wish to live. Strange foreign towns, astir and crowded, new pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces passing ever may hide the one I still retain, defined and fixed and fading never, stamped deep on vision, heart and brain. And we might meet, time may have changed him. Chance may reveal the mystery, the secret influence which estranged him. Love may restore him yet to me. False thought, false hope, in scorn be banished. I am not loved, nor loved have been. Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished. Traitors, mislead me not again. To words like yours I bid defiance, the such my mental wreck have made. Of God alone and self-reliance I ask for solace, hope for aid. Mourn comes, and e'er meridian glory Over these my natal woods shall smile, both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. By Ridgway Thirstily and made in Mistress Summoning who tend the hostelry. Oh, Cider is a great thing, a great thing to me. The dance, it is a great thing, a great thing to me, with candles lit in partner spit for night long rubble wreath, and going home when day dawning, peaks pale upon the leaf. Oh, dancing is a great thing, a great thing to me. Love is, yea, a great thing, a great thing to me. When having drawn across the lawn in darkness silently, a figure flits like one a wing out from the nearest tree. Oh, love is, yes, a great thing, a great thing to me. Will these be always great things, great things to me? Let it befall that one will call, so I have need of thee. What then? Joy, jaunts, impassioned flings, love, and its ecstasy will always have been great things, great things to me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Haste not, rest not. By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832, read for LibriVox.org. Without haste, without rest, bind the model to thy breast, bear it with thee as a spell, storm and sunshine guarded well. Heed not flowers that round thee bloom, bear it onward to the tomb. Haste not, let no thoughtless deed mar for a the spirit speed. Ponder well, and know the rate onward, then, with all thy might. Haste not, years can narr a tone for one reckless action done. Rest not, life is sweeping by. Go and dare before you die, something mighty and sublime, leave behind to conquer time. Glorious is to live for a, when these forms have passed away. Haste not, rest not. Calmly wait, meekly bear the storms of fate. Duty be thy polar guide, do the right, what ere be tied. Haste not, rest not. Conflicts past, God shall crown thy work at last. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Leg liquor drinkers in the fog, and let your breath be moist against me, like bright beads on yellow globes. Telephone the powerhouse, that the main wires are insolent. Her words play softly up and down, dewy corridors of billboards. Then with your tongue remove the tape, and press your lips to mine, till they are incandescent. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Autumn, by John Halston, read for LibriVox.org by Inking. I see the sun grow old, grow grey and old, and full of quiet, creep from the still slopes, and chasmed ways of clouds, that fill the frontiers of his place of sleep. Wan suns, that bleach the shadows cast on stubble fields all day, with mist of gold. Where evenings, each one earlier than the last, from golden mist, prepare their paler shrouds. As nightfall gathers stars with viewless hand, so death goes wide, and gathers in the dusks. The sharp white breath of morning on the land gleams whiter for the empty chestnut husks. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In the Mountains on a Summer Day, by Lee Poe, translated by Arthur Whaley, read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. Gently I stir a white feather fan with open shirt sitting in a green wood. I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone. A wind from the pine trees trickles on my bare head. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My heart of love left lonely. Swift in the mask of seasons, the moment of each mama, and even so fugitive loves our, loves our to live. Yet leaves ye have had your rapture, and thou, poor heart, thy summer. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Not too backward or too bold. Love that lasteth tilt his old, fadeeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long, is the burden of my song. If thou lovest me too much, it will not prove as true a touch. Love me little more than such, for I fear the end. I am with little well content, and a little from thee sent is enough, with true intent, to be steadfast friend. Love me little, love me long, is the burden of my song. Say thou lovest me while thou live, I to thee my love will give, never dreaming to deceive, while that life endures. Nay, and after death ensuth, I to thee will keep my truth, as now when in my may of youth, this my love assures. Love me little, love me long, is the burden of my song. Constant love is moderate ever, and it will through life perceiver. Give me that, with true endeavor, I will it restore. A suit of endurance let it be, for all weathers that for me, for the land or for the sea, lasting ever more. Love me little, love me long, is the burden of my song. Winter's cold or summer's heat, autumn tempests on it beat. It can never know defeat, never can rebel. Such the love that I would gain, such the love I tell thee plain, thou must give or will in vain, so to thee farewell. Love me little, love me long, is the burden of my song. As they streamed across the earth with proud, unsullied grace, each flower in its appointed time and place, and the unfolding of each leaf had seemed to brand the hope on which her heart had dreamed. That spring should drive the winter from her face, and summer with a broken covenant trace, how spring's indentured pledges were redeemed. Slowly they came, those blown maturities, in chaste, erinic order, leaf and bud and blossom, and red fruit upon the trees, pale blue and yellow in spring flowers, blood of peony and rose. She knew them all, from the crocus to the aster in the fall. Two. But when the autumn frost had stripped each tree, and every garden of the earth they bear, of leaf and flower and fruit, she turned to where the sun's immaculate hand was on the sea. He touched the waves, and from them magically, lilies and violets grew, and jonquil sphere is those of spring, all in November air, and fine reversal of earth's irony. Three. Then a wind from the land sprang up and whipped the waters, to the flowers grew acid-etched upon her heart. But other blooms rose-lipped, out of the fresh autumnal foam were fetched by the sun's hand, strange harvest that achieves its seasonal fruit before the time of leaves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Pergatorial shadows, drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish, bearing teeth that layer like skull's tongues wicket, stroke on stroke of pain, but what slow pain gouged these chasms round their freddits' sockets, ever from their hair and through their hand-pams misery's wilters. Surely we have perished, sleeping and walk hell, but who these hellish? These are men whose minds the dead have ravished, memory fingers in their hair of murders, multitudinous murders they once witnessed, wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wonder, treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter, always they must see things and hear them, batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, carnage incomparable and human squander, wrucked too thick for these men's extrication. Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented, back into their brains because of their sense, sunlight seems a blood smear, night comes blood black, dawn breaks open like a wind that blades afresh, thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, awful falseness of set-smiling corpses, thus their hands are plucked at each other, picking up the rope-knots of their scourging, snatching after us who smote them, brother, pawing us who dealt them war and madness. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. On the pleasant streets of that dear old town, and my youth comes back to me, and a verse of a lapland song is haunting on my memory still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I can see the shadowy lines of its trees and catch in sudden gleams the sheen of the far-surrounding seas and islands that were the hesperies of all my boy's dreams, and the burden of that old song it murmurs and whispers still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the black wharves and the slips and the sea-tides tossing free, and Spanish sailors with bearded lips and the beauty and the mystery of the ships and the magic of the sea, and the voice of that wayward song is singing and saying still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the bulwarks by the shore and the fort upon the hill, the sunrise gun with its hollow roar, the drumbeat repeated o'er and o'er, and the bugle wild and shrill, and the music of that old song throbs in my memory still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the sea-fight far away, how it thundered o'er the tide, and the dead captains as they lay in their graves or looking the tranquil bay where they and battle died, and the sound of that mournful song goes through me with a thrill. The boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I can see the breezy dome of groves, the shadow of Deering's woods, and the friendships old and the early loves come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves in quiet neighborhoods, and the verse of that sweet old song it flutters and murmurs still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school boy's brain, the song and the silence in the heart, that in part are prophecies, and in part are longings, wild and vain, and the voice of that fitful song sings on and is never still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. There are things of which I may not speak, there are dreams that cannot die, there are thoughts that make the strong heart weak and bring pallor into the cheek, and a mist before the eye, and the words of that fatal song come over me like a chill. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. Strange to me now were the forms I meet when I visit the dear old town, but the native air is pure and sweet, and the trees that are shadow each well-known street, as they balance up and down, are singing the beautiful song, are sighing and whispering still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. And dearings' woods are fresh and fair, and with joy that is almost pain my heart goes back to wander there, and among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, the groves are repeating it still. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE NIMPS REPLY TO THE SHEPARD by Sir Walter Raleigh Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon If all the world and love were young and truth in every shepherd's tongue, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold when rivers rage and rocks grow cold, and Philomel become a dumb. The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade and wanton fields, to wayward winter reckoning yields. A honey tongue, a heart of gall, is fancy's spring, but sorrows fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, thy cap, thy curdle, and thy posies, soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, in folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, the coral clasps and amber studs, all these in me no means can move to come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last and love still breed, had joys no date nor age no need, then these delights my mind might move to live with thee and be thy love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE PASSING THRONG by Edgar A. Guest Read for Librabox.org by Larry Wilson From Newsboy to Millionaire the passing throng goes by each day. The old man with his weight of care, the maiden in her colors gay, the mother with her babe in arms, the dreamer and the man of might, grief's cruel scars and laughter's charms pass by the window day and night. Now slowly rides a corpse to find the grave and its unbroken sleep, in the carriage behind a score of sorrowing loved ones weep. But scarcely has the hearse passed by upon its journey to the tomb, when wreathed with smiles of love we spy the faces of a bride and groom. We cannot understand it all. We cannot know why this is so. From dawn until night's curtains fall we see the people come and go. Hope lights the eyes of youth today. Tomorrow care has left them dim. Once this man proudly walked his way, but now defeat has broken him. Could we but watch as God must do. We'd see the struggling youth arise. We'd see him brave his dangers through, and reach his goal and claim the prize. And we might judge with gentler sight the broken lives which come and go, and better choose, twix wrong and right, if we could know but God must know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe. Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, and see the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls, melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make the beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a curdle, embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull. Fair lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs. And if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat, as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd's swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may morning. If these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Now lines of gray and dragging vapors on its brow heavily are drawn. And it lies broken as with centuries, though yesterday blue-eyed and shadowless as a child's face it held the promise of a luminous dawn. Though through its merry after hours it bade the sun to pour its flaming mintage on the ocean floor, that by a conjurer's touch was turned to rarer treasure manifold, where Jasonth emerald and sapphire burned, a fringe around a core of gold. Old. Old is the sea today, forsaken chill and gray, and banished is the glory of its waters. Though through the silent tenure of the night it bade the sterile moon to multiply a thousand fold its undivided light within the nadir of a richer sky, when every star a thousand crescents glowed that, caught in wider conflagration, sent vast leagues of silver fire wherever it flowed, the waters of its shoreless firmament. That old and gray is the sea today, with the morning colors blanched upon its waters. Masks. What hidden soul residing within these forms, O sea, should every hour changing to time yet changeless be? What masks has thou not worn? What parts not played? Thou Prince of all the revels in life's masquerade? Light-hearted as a gesture, the motley fits thy mood, as the gold and the purple thy statelyer habitu'd. At dawn, a trumpeter prelooting a day's pageant, at noon, a dancer weaving new measures around the furrows of ships with white sails, later a courier with sealed tidings hastening towards the shore, at sunset, a dire steeping colors on a bay, again a sculptor teasing faces out of the moonlit foam on a reef, or carving brick-a-brack upon a beach, or fashioning with aged-toiled hands a grotto out of limestone. The wind blows, and the master puts a flute to his lips. It blows again, and his fingers take hold of organ stops. The destroyer. Once more, the wind, and thou dost go on an old familiar way in tragic fashion, as a corsair pursuing his prey with the lust of passion falls like a burst of hail on an autumn hue, till every reach and gulf and bay is left with the stubble of life and sail, with the face of the waters like unto the face of the field. In retreat. Now, like a fugitive who on the desert sand a moment broods upon the life he split, and with averted gaze circling the dusky ruin of his hand, surveys the air but measure of his guilt, before a presence standing there that calls his name in cloud and shadow, and in whirlwind reads the inviolate scripture of the fates, then full across the desert speeds until he falls, caught by the Avenger near the city gates. So, underneath the heaven's lighted scroll ablaze with cryptic tokens of the slain, headlong to shore thy spiral waters roll, swept by the bison of the winds, by rain and thunder driven in flight along the galleries of the night, until upon the surge line locked in strife with reed and breaker thou art shattered, soon in fang and sinew to be strewn around the cliffs that guard the ports of life. A wild, tumultuous sea, thy waters mock our liturgy, for thou dost take the threads of faith apart, wherewith the cables of our life are spun, strand upon strand unraveling, thou dost hear, recited from a tide-wet shore, our creeds each hope and fear filtered from life's confessions one by one. Out of the dumb confusions of the heart are spread before thy sight, the arch inquisitor. How enruthless moment does thou strip the valines from our eyes, and bid us cast our glances on a labyrinthine past, stirred by a flash that on a wave's white lip gleams for an instant, or by some dark sigh within thy fearful hollows, where night flings her crepe of shadow on a tossing line of jetsum, will our years turn back to gather from a weed-grown tract a bitter tale of dimmed remembrance. REBORN As to its end the tempest drags its way, thou art reborn, to strength the body and beauty of face, and thou dost cover with a tranquil grace those whom the winds had buffeted, and laid upon the waters. Dead in darkness dost thou cover them, as some white-winged mother of the crags, that daily gathering food from seaweed and from tide-wash brings it fall of night to her rock-nurtured brood, the drowsy silence of her wings. THE DEAD CALM How, like a pontiff, dost thou lie at last? Impassive! Robed at death's high-unctioned hour, with those grave vestments that the storm in the dead legacy of its power, around thy level form majestically has cast in the pale light of the moon's slow tapers burning, all silent in the calm recessional of the tide's turning, all passionless, though on the distant sands where the wreathed lilies of the spray, keen sifted by the late winds, are strewn, thy children call, their patient hands in prayer to thee uplifted. IN THE POEM this recording is in the public domain Sent with some leaves and flowers found in a book to the person who had put them there thirty years before, by Henry Taylor, read for LibriVox.org by a Newgate novelist. Oh, tender leaves and flowers, though withered, tender yet! What privilege of joy was ours in youth when first we met? Bright eyes beheld your bloom, fair hands your charms caressed, and not irreverent was the doom that laid you here to rest. Sweet phantoms, from your bed thus rearisen, you paint the likeness of a love long dead in faded colours faint. Oh, tender flowers and leaves, by all our vanished joys, by glittering spring tide that deceives, by winter that destroys. Though not can now restore the perished to its place, eyes dimmed by time and tears, once more shall look you in the face. End of poem this recording is in the public domain A Song of Decadence by James Henry Cousins Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter I wonder if there still remain some echoes from the songs of old, or what the measure of the strain the future shall unfold, the voice that breathed across the years, and came and went and passed the bar, and sang the battle song of tears, sounds small and faint and far, and men have found another chord, an offspring not of heart, but head, and gold is God, and lust is Lord, and love lies stricken dead. Ah, me, the race goes blindly on, and leaves the old familiar ways, and still earth-weighted flowers the dawn to still ignoble days, and men, as sheep within their folds, grope round their world with great sad eyes, and hate the hand that still withholds the secret of the skies, or, deeming God an idle tale, withdrawn from lore of ancient shelves, themselves would reckon by the scale and measure of themselves. How mean the stature of the song of our inglorious, glorious time, attenuating, as along it moves from that great prime, when Milton, in the midnight hours, lay waiting for the mystic breath of God to touch his soul to flowers of song that smile at death. O singers of the years to come, be yours the large and liberal scope, sing sweetly, or for I be dumb, of God and love and hope, and circled by no little line of gain or loss, of time or sense, nor bent at mammon's soul's shrine, your birthright part for pence, but bend an arm across the past, and finger all the vibrant years, till sunlight on our shadows cast makes rainbows of our tears. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of Myself, Section 1, by Walt Whitman. I celebrate myself and sing myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loaf and invite my soul. I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from the soil this air, born here of parents, born here from parents the same, and their parents the same. I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health begin, hoping to cease not till death. Creeds in schools and abeyance. Retiring back a while, sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten. I harbor for good or bad. I permit to speak at every hazard. Nature without check, with original energy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Song of Thanks, by Edward Smith Jones. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, for the flowers which bloom, and the birds that sing, for the verdant robe of the gray old earth, for her coffers filled with their countless worth, for the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, for the rippling streams which turn the mills, for the lowing herds in the lovely veil, for the songs of gladness on the gale, from the gulf and the lakes to the oceans banks, Lord God of Hosts, we give thee thanks. For the farmer reaping his whiteened fields, for the bounty which the rich soil yields, for the cooling dews and refreshing grains, for the sun which ripens the golden grains, for the bearded wheat, and the fattened swine, for the stolid ox and the fruitful vine, for the tubers large and cotton white, for the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, for the swan which floats near the river banks, Lord God of Hosts, we give thee thanks. For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, for the corn and beans and the sugared ham, for the plum and the peach and the apple red, for the dear old press where the wine is tread, for the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, and the proud old turk of the farmer's barn, for the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, for the game which hide in the shady nooks, from the gulf and the lakes to the oceans banks, Lord God of Hosts, we give thee thanks. For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, for the lead and the coal from the deep dark mines, for the silver whores of a thousand fold, for the diamond bright and the yellow gold, for the riverboat and the flying train, for the fleecy sail of the rolling mane, for the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, for the flag of peace which we now unfurl, from the gulf and the lakes to the oceans banks, Lord God of Hosts, we give thee thanks. For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, for the peace and plenty together share, for the hand which guides us from above, for thy tender mercies abiding love, for the blessed home with its children gay, for returnings of thanksgiving day, for the bearing toils and the sharing cares, we lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers, from the gulf and the lakes to the oceans banks, Lord God of Hosts, we give thee thanks. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, has thou the master-mistress of my passion, a woman's gentle heart but not acquainted, with shifting change as his false woman's fashion, and I more bright than theirs, less false enrolling, glaring the object whereupon it gazeeth, a man in hue, all hues in his controlling, which stales men's eyes and woman's soul's amazeth, and for a woman were thou first created, till nature as she wrought, they fell adoting, and by addition, me of thee defended, by adding one thing to my purpose, nothing, but since she prickled, thee out for woman's pleasure, mine be thy love and thy love's use, their treasure. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The light in yonder casement, Doth it hint a tale of trouble, where some maiden mourner pale confides her sorrows to the secret night? Or doth it speak of youth uprising bright, with glad alacrity, her morning break, to chase a hope new started, or but lo, the one light creeps with stealthy motion slow across the chamber? Shall we token take from this? The tor sick bed, or mortal throw, sad watch is kept? Small answer can I make, nor more can of that dim-seen watcher know, than that some object, passion, throb, or ache, has kept some solitary heart awake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet Eight by Francesco Petracca, read for Libbivox.org by Sarah Space. She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine, a noble lady in a humble home, and now her time for heavenly bliss has come, desire mortal-proofed, and she divine, the soul that all its blessings must resign, and love whose light no more no finds room, might rend the rocks with pity for their doom, yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine, they weep within my heart no ears they find, save mine alone, and I am crushed with care, and not remains to me save mournful breath. Assuredly but dust and shade we are, assuredly desire is mad and blind, assuredly its hope but ends in death. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Stars by Madison Colleen, read for Libbivox.org by Jackie Graves. These, the bright symbols of man's hope and fame, in which he reads his blessing or his curse, are syllables with which God speaks his name in the vast utterance of the universe. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Tidings, Easter, 1916. From The Ghetto and Other Poems by Lola Ridge, read for Libbivox.org by Dale Grothman. Censored lies that mimic truth, censored truth as pale as fear. My heart is like a rousing bell, and but the dead to hear. My heart is like a mother bird circling ever higher, and the nestry rimmed about by a forest fire. My heart is like a lover foiled by a broken stair. They're fighting to-night in Sackville Street, and I am not there. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To an Intimate Friend by Cynthia Taggart. Read for Libbivox.org by Sonja. To an Intimate Friend, 1827. While fierce afflictions darken round, and pleasure's smile no more is found, while hope and happiness are flown, and sorrow heaves the breast alone, the tortured heart in deep distress still ponders over thy loveliness. Still seems thy soothing voice to hear that sweetly falls on misery's ear. The memory of thy worth and truth, the sweetness of thy early youth, from thy sad friends dissolving heart, nor pain nor agony can part. And though this hand no more can guide the friendly pen till pain subside, yet, gentle one, at thy request, the thoughts within this heart compressed, in simple, mournful strains shall flow on pleasure's past and present woe. Yet must thy gentle heart prepare to hear the tones of deep despair, though lightly touched my grief shall be, thou much-loved friend of infancy. When mourning life in brightness bloomed, and pleasure each young heart illumined, hope's joyous accents then were born on the soft breath of barmy mourn, and virtue's pure, surrific voice bade youth in her loved power rejoice, while friends and kindred sweetly smiled, and every transient care beguiled. The ardent, young and glowing mind over pleasure's flowery scenes reclined, over fairy tale and vision poured, with fancy's glowing beauty stored. The poet's page of ancient name charmed with its bright, bewitching flame, and history's calm, learned lore was added to the mental store, while each varying picture wrought, to charm the soul or guide the thought, all met the heart, and transient pain released its victim soon again. The minstrel's tuneful notes of joy could every saddening thought destroy, and fancy's scenes of rapture bright through every tranquil hour delight. But now those happy days are over, and these loved treasures charm no more. No more the poet's sweetest strain can check the cruel force of pain. No flowery page, no reason's voice can bid the breaking heart rejoice. Even nature's blooming aspect fails, to cheer the soul where grief prevails. Nor vernal music's gentle flow can sooth the heart overwhelmed with woe. Past are those sweet and happy hours, which spent in nature's blooming powers delight serene and pleasure gave, though destined to an early grave. Ah, me, what grief has shadowed over those prospects that can charm no more, what clouds of sorrow move between the dawning and the noonday scene? Once each fair smile of morning light awoke our souls to vision's bright. The spirits in rejoicing ease, sprang lightly as the vernal breeze, and mingled free in social joy and kindred kindness sweet employ. Or contemplation's calmer thought, delight in loved retirement sort, when oft at evening sweet are calm, silent we sip the breathing balm, while the fair moon was chastened beam, gilded the playful murmuring stream, and with her soft, quiescent light, silver-disabled garb of night. Pensive we ranged the pebbly shore, whose waters their wild music pour, where mingling waves in loftier tone of mournful grandeur wake the song. Then happiness and we were seen in gayer rambles on the green, and life was sweet with peace and joy. Nor art could long the bliss annoy. Even now, my friend, in mental view, gliding we skip the vernal dew, and taste the fresh moon's healthful breeze, charmed with her fragrant gaities. Then pause, while all delighted spring, glad spirits on their airy wing. Our bosoms will with pleasures glow, and raptures ardent accents flow. Alas! how changed! The tear, the sigh, instead of song are ever nigh, and life grows dim with lingering pain, while mitigations sort in vain. Once more forgive the mournful song that flows from sorrow, sad and long, but feign would yield to friendship's claim a tribute to its sacred name, who dwell upon the pleasing theme, when virtue glows with gentlest beam, and three defection's power benign expands that generous breast of dine. But sorrow checks the pleasing thrill, blending afflictions deadly as ill, and bowding guides my thoughts afar to misery's night without a star. But still may friendship's cheering sound oft sooth the wrangling, clueless wound, and oft the midnight thought will rove on virtues that it still must love, where innocence and truth combined adorn the treasures of the mind, where sympathy's sweet voice relieves the aching heart that silent grieves. I view the beauty's blooming maid as when mid-flowery scenes she strayed, where the fair lily and the rose, their beauty and their sweets disclose, which her own blooming aspect wears, with loveliness more dear than theirs, and sweetly smiled in artless ease, brightest of blooming gayities. But beauty's charms on me no more exert their soul and living power. For vision fails, with light oppressed, and beauty mocks the troubled breast, then strife my aching thought to shun those ills that cloud thy brightest sun, and dwell on fadeless beauty's now, and mark the matron's milder brow. For wisdom, prudence, pious care, mingle in meek assemblage there. The wife, affectionate, resigned, the mother, tender, watchful, kind, bespeak the heart where virtue yields, her choicest fruits, and gently shields, her votery from mental pain, and sweet content and quiet reign. Me things I see thee fondly gaze, as thy loved infant near thee plays, with all a mother's anxious care, and hope delighted, beaming there, when at its lovely winning wiles, responsive sweet affection smiles, and its first uttered accent breeze, sweetest of pleasing harmonies. Then clasped within thy longing arms, I see thee bear its infant charms, or fold it gently to thy breast, and lull it to its peaceful rest. O, may the beauty's infant fair, its mother's charms her virtues share, and long thy joy and solace prove, the cherished offspring of thy love, and bless her father's guardian name, and long his love protection claim, still may'st thou here be ever blessed, and go at last to a blissful rest. Adieu, these pains augmenting fast, wreck every nerve and check the last, the fond remembrance of thy worth, that feign would breathe thy beauty's forth, but pain's imperious cry obey, and nature feigns beneath their sway. Once more, farewell, my gentle friend, may guardian angels all thy life attend. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. We dream of the wonderful things we'll do in the beautiful by and by. Too busy to take a walk in the woods with the dear one who longs to go. Too busy to write a letter of love to the mother aged and slow. Too busy to visit a friend who is ill, who has almost forgotten to smile. Too busy to do a thousand things that I'm sure would be really worthwhile. Too busy to think of a cheery word to pass to a comrade who's sad. Too busy to kiss the face of a child that its heart might be glad. Too busy to rest. Too busy to pray. Too busy to laugh or to smile. Too busy doing the lesser things. Too busy to make life. Worthwhile. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. When we had in the bath tonight the cold so cold and the hot so hot. Oh God bless daddy I quite forgot. If I open my fingers a little more I can see nanny's dressing gown on the door. It's a beautiful pink but it hasn't a hood. Oh God bless nanny and make me good. Mine has a hood and I lie in bed and I pull the hood right over my head and I shut my eyes and I curl up small and nobody knows that I'm there at all. And thank you God for a lovely day. And what is the other I have to say? I've said bless daddy so what can it be? Oh now I remember it. God bless me. Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed. Droops on the little hands, little gold head. Hush hush whisper who dares. Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. We are the Sculptors by Isabelle Richie Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington We are the Sculptors life the marble block And what we carve unchangeable must stand Firm then should be the purpose And the hand unfaltering Lest our execution mock our fair design Let no newcomer knock upon our door With smile and promise bland enticing us Hear not but the command of that stern faithful sentinel The clock But better that thy work be illy wrought Than idle dreaming leaving all undone Like to the careful servitor that brought the talent saying Lord thou gavest one and one I have restored to thee For not have lost but fearing much have added none End of poem this recording is in the public domain When George was king by E. Pauline Johnson Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk Cards and swords and a lady's love That is a tale worth reading An insult veiled a downcast glove And rapier's bleep unheeding And tis all for the brawl the thrust the fall And the fall at your feet a bleeding Tales of revel at wayside ends The goblet's gaily filling Braggarts boasting a thousand sins Though none can boast a shilling And tis all for the wine the frothing stein And the clamor of cups a-spilling Tales of maidens in rich brocade Powder and puff and patches Galants lilting a serenade of old time trolls and catches And tis all for the lips and the fingertips And the kiss that the boldest snatches Tales of buckle and big rosette The slender shoe adorning Of curtsying through the minuet With laughter, love, or scorning And tis all for the shout of the rust about As he hides him home in the morning Cards and swords and a lady's love Give to the tale God-speeding War and wassal and perfumed glove And all that's rare in reading And tis all for the ways of the olden days And a life that was worth the leading And a poem this recording is in the public domain