 Around the Corner by Charles Hanson Town, redforlibbervox.org by Jackie Nyman, June 2008, Pembroke, Ontario, Canada. Around the Corner Around the Corner I have a friend in this great city that has no end, yet days go by and weeks rush on, and before I know it a year is gone. And I never see my old friend's face, for life is a swift and terrible race. He knows I like him just as well as in the days when I rang his bell, and he rang mine. We were younger then. And now we are busy tired men, tired with playing a foolish game, tired with trying to make a name. Tomorrow, I say, I will call on Jim, just to show that I'm thinking of him. But tomorrow comes, and tomorrow goes, and the distance between us grows and grows. Around the Corner, yet miles away. Here's a telegram, sir. Jim died today, and that's what we get and deserve in the end. Around the Corner, a vanished friend. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The following poem is read for LibriVox.org by Shona Brogdon-Sturble. Before I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see as other creatures that have eyes, and know no other way. But were it told to me today that I might have the sky for mine, I tell you that my heart would split for size of me, the meadows mine, the mountains mine, all forest, stentless stars, as much of noon as I could take between my finite eyes, the motions of the dipping birds, the lightning's jointed road for mine to look at when I liked, the news would strike me dead. So, safer guess, with just my soul upon the window pane, where other creatures put their eyes in cautious of the sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cargos by John Macefield. Read for LibriVox.org by Sarah Williams. Quinn Creream of Nineveh from Distant O'Fear, rowing home to Haven in sunny Palestine, with a cargo of ivory and apes and peacocks, sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the isthmus, dipping through the tropics by the palm green shores, with a cargo of diamonds, emeralds, amethysts, topazes, and cinnamon, and gold wadors. Dirty British coaster with a salt caked smokestack butting through the channel in the mad March days, with a cargo of tine coal, road rails, pig lead, firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dolce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by Hattie Lennox. Bent double like old beggars under sacks. Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge. Till on the haunting flares, we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, bloodshod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of disappointed shells that dropped behind. Gas, gas, quick boys, an ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering like a man in fire or a lime, dim through the misty panes and thick green light. As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face like a devil sick of sin. If you could hear at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile and curable sores on innocent tongues. My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie, dulce et decorum est propatria mori. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Face in a Book by Richard Lagallian. Red for Libbervox.org by Esther. In an old book I found her face, writ by a dead man long ago. I found, and then I lost the place, so nothing but her face I know, and her soft name writ fair below. Even if she lived I cannot learn, or but a dead man's dream she were. Page after yellow page I turn, but cannot come again to her. Although I know she must be there. On other books of other men, far in the night, year-long I pour, hoping to find her face again, too fair a face to see no more, and to a so soft a name she bore. Sometimes I think the book was youth, and the dead man that wrote it I. The face was beauty, the name truth, and thus with an unseeing eye I pass the long-sought image by. This recording is in the public domain. A Fragment. Also known as, Accept My Full Hearts Thanks. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Red for Libbervox.org by Jackie Nyman. June 2008. Pembroke, Ontario, Canada. A Fragment. Your words came just when needed. Like a breeze, blowing and bringing from the wide salt sea, some cooling spray, tomato scorched with heat, and choked with dust and clouds of sifted sand, that hateful whirlwinds, envious of its bloom, had tossed upon it. But the cool sea breeze came laden with the odours of the sea, and damp with spray, that laid the dust and sand, and brought new life and strength to blade and bloom. So words of thine came over miles to me, fresh from the mighty sea, a true friend's heart, and brought me hope and strength, and swept away the dusty webs that human spiders spun across my path. Friend, and the word means much. So few there are who reach like thee, a hand up over all the barking currs of spite, and give the clasp when most its need is felt. Friend, newly found, accept my Full Hearts Thanks. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. How Doth the Little Crocodile, by Lewis Carroll. Recorded for LibriVox.org by J. Pillsbury. How Doth the Little Crocodile, in prubly shining tail, and pour the waters of the Nile on every golden scale, how cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spread his claws, and welcomed little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Romney Marsh, by John Davidson. Read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding. As I went down to Dimchurch Wall, I heard the south singer of the land. I saw the yellow sunlight fall on knolls where Norman churches stand, and ringing shrilly, taut, and lithe, within the wind of core of sound, the wire from Romney Town to Hithe, along its airy journey wound. A veil of purple vapor flowed, and trailed its fringe along the straits. The upper air like sapphire glowed, and roses filled heaven's central gates. Masts in the offing wagged their tops, the swinging waves peeled on the shore. The saffron beach, all diamond drops, and beads of surge prolonged the roar. As I came up from Dimchurch Wall, I saw, above the down's low crest, the crimson brands of sunset fall, flicker and fade from out the west. Night sank. Like flakes of silver fire, the stars in one great shower came down. Shrill blew the wind, and shrill the wire rang out from Hithe to Romney Town. The darkly shining salt sea drops streamed as the waves clashed on the shore. The beach, with all its organ stops peeling again, prolonged the roar. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This poem is recorded for LibriVox.org by Shona Brandon Sturble. Jubilato Agno by Christopher Smart. For I will consider my Aunt Jeffrey. For he is the servant of the living God, duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East, he worships in his way. For this is done by breathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing, he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in 10 degrees. For first he looks upon his four palms to see if they are clean. For secondly, he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly, he works it upon stretch with the four paws extended. For fourthly, he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly, he washes himself. For sixthly, he rolls upon wash. For seventhly, he flees himself that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly, he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly, he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly, he goes in quest of food. For having considered God and himself, he will consider his neighbor. For if he meets another cat, he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey, he plays with it to give it a chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done, his business more properly begins. For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the devil who is death by brisking about the life. For in his morning horizons, he loves the son and the son loves him. For he is the tribe of tiger. For the cherub cat is a term of the angel tiger. For he has the subtlety and hiscing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. For he will not do destruction if he is well fed. Neither will he spit without provocation. For he purrs in thankfulness. When God tells him, he's a good cat. For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon. For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit. For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats and the departure of the children of Israel from Egypt. For every family had one cat, at least in the bag. For the English cats are the best in Europe. For he is the cleanest in the use of his wool paws of any quadruped. For the dexterity of his defense is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly. For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature. For he is tenacious of his point. For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery. For he knows that God is his savior. For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion. For he is of the Lord's poor, and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually. Poor Jeffrey, poor Jeffrey, the rat has bit thy throat. For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeffrey is better. For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat. For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has impurity what it wants in music. For he is thoughtful and can learn certain things. For he can set up with gravity, which is patience upon approbation. For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment. For he can jump over a stick, which is patience upon proof positive. For he can spragle upon waggle at the word of command. For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom. For he can catch the cork and toss it again. For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser, for the former is afraid of detection, for the latter refuses the charge. For he canals his back to bear the first notion of business. For he is good to think on if a man would express himself neatly. For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services. For he killed the Iqnuman rat, very pernicious by line. For his ears are so acute that they sting again. For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention. For by stroking of him, I have found out electricity. For I perceived God's light about him, both wax and fire. For the electrical fire is the spiritual substance which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast. For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. For though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped. For he can tread to all the measures upon the music. For he can swim for life. For he can creep. End of poem. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Lucy Ashton's song by Sir Walter Scott. RedfieldlibriVox.org by Michael Dalling. Look not thou on beauty's charming. Sit thou still when kings are arming. Taste not when the wine cup listens. Speak not when the people listens. Stop thine ear against the singer from the red gold keep thy finger. Fake and heart and hand and eye. Easy live and quiet die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Mad Gardener song by Lewis Carroll. Read for LibriVox.org by Hattie Lennox. He thought he saw an elephant that practised on a pipe. He looked again and found it was a letter from his wife. At length I realise, he said, the bitterness of life. He thought he saw a buffalo upon the chimney piece. He looked again and found it was his sister's husband's niece. Unless you leave this house, he said, I'll send for the police. He thought he saw a rattlesnake that questioned him in Greek. He looked again and found it was the middle of next week. The one thing I regret, he said, is that it cannot speak. He thought he saw a banker's clerk descending from the bus. He looked again and found it was a hippopotamus. If this should stay to dine, he said, there won't be much for us. He thought he saw a kangaroo that worked a coffee mill. He looked again and found it was a vegetable pill. Were I to swallow this, he said, I should be very ill. He thought he saw a coach and four that stood beside his bed. He looked again and found it was a bear without a head. Poor thing, he said. Poor silly thing, it's waiting to be fed. He thought he saw an albatross that fluttered round the lamp. He looked again and found it was a penny postage stamp. You'd best be getting home, he said. The nights are very damp. He thought he saw a garden door that opened with a key. He looked again and found it was a double rule of three. And all it's mystery, he said, is clear as day to me. He thought he saw an argument that proved he was the pope. He looked again and found it was a bar of mottled soap. A fact so dread, he faintly said, extinguishes all hope. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Heart and I, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Read for LibriVox.org by Shulif Malikhim. Enough, we tied my heart and I. We set beside the headstone thus and wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly the hard types of the mason's knife as heaven's sweet life renews earth's life with which we're tied, my heart and I. You see, we're tied, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, and in our own blood drenched in the pen, as if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end. We laughed too true to keep a friend. At last, we're tied, my heart and I. How tied we feel, my heart and I. We seem of no use in the world. Our fantasies hang gray and uncurled about men's eyes indifferently. Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let you sleep. Our tears are only wet. What do we hear, my heart and I? So tied, so tied, my heart and I. It was not the same that all time when Ralph sat with me, neath the lime, to watch the sunset from the sky. Dear love, you're looking tied, he said. I, smiling at him, shook my head. It is now, we're tied, my heart and I. So tied, so tied, my heart and I. Though now none takes me on his arm to fold me close and kiss me warm, till each quick breath end in a sigh of happy linger. Now alone, we lean upon this graveyard stone, unteared, unkissed, my heart and I. Tied out, we are, my heart and I. Supposed in the world, bro, didoms, to tempt us, grusted with the loose gems of powers and pleasures, let it try. We scarcely care to look at even a pretty child, or God's blue heaven. We feel so tied, my heart and I. Yet, who complains, my heart and I? In this abundant earth, no doubt, is little room for things worn out, to sting them, rake them, throw them by. And if before the days grow rough, we once were loved, used well enough, I think we fared, my heart and I. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Read for LibriVox by Greg Baffin. Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal. Now the White. Nor waves the Cyprus in the palace walk. Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font. The firefly wakens. Waken, thou with me. Now droops the milk white peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost, she glimmers on to me. Now lies the earth, all deny to the stars. And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow as thy thoughts in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake. So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom, and be lost in me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On A Drop of Dew by Andrew Marvel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. On A Drop of Dew by Andrew Marvel. See how the orient do, shed from the bosom of the morn into the blowing roses, yet careless of its mansion new, for the clear region where it was born, round in itself encloses. And in its little globes extent, frames as it can its native element, how it, the purple flower does slight, scarce touching where it lies, but gazing back upon the skies, shines with a mournful light, like its own tear, because so long divided from the sphere, restless it rolls and unsecure, trembling lest it grow impure, till the warm sun pity its pain, and to the skies exhale it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray of the clear fountain of eternal day, could it within the humane flower be seen? Remembering still its former height, shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, and recollecting its own light, does in its pure and circling thoughts, express the greater heaven in and heaven less, in how coy a figure wound, every way it turns away. So the world excluding round, yet receiving in the day, dark beneath but bright above, here disdaining there in love. How loose and easy hence to go, how girt and ready to ascend, moving but on a point below, it all about does upwards bend. Such did the manor's sacred dew distill, white and entire, though congealed and chill, congealed on earth, but does dissolving run into the glories of the Almighty Son. End of recording. Prison Meditations, a poem by John Bunyan. 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 T. Wellington. Prison Meditations. Friend, I salute thee in the Lord and wish thou mayest abound in faith, and have a good regard to keep on holy ground. Thou dost encourage me to hold my head above the flood, I counsel better than his gold, in need thereof I stood. Good counsel's good at any time, the wise will it receive. Though fools count, he commits a crime, who doth good counsel give. I take it kindly at thy hand, thou didst unto me write, my feet upon Mount Zion stand, and that take thou delight. I am indeed in prison now, in body, but my mind is free to study Christ and how unto me he is kind. For though men keep me outward man, within their locks and bars, yet by the faith of Christ I can, come out higher than the stars. Their fetters cannot spirits tame, nor tie up God from me. My faith and hope they cannot lame, above them I shall be. I here am very much refreshed to think when I was out. I preached life and peace and rest to sinners round about. My business then was souls to save, by preaching grace and faith, of which the comfort now I have, and have it shall till death. They were no fables that I taught, devised by cunning men, but God's own word by which were taught, some sinners now and then. Whose souls by it were made to see, the evil of their sin, and need of Christ to make them free from death which they were in. And now those very hearts that then were foes unto the Lord, embrace his Christ in truth like men, conquered by his word. I hear them sigh and groan and cry, for grace to God above. They loathe their sin, and to it die, to his holiness they love. This was the work that I was about, when hands on me were laid. Was this from which they plucked me out, and vilely to me said, you heretic, deceiver, come, to prison you must go, you preach abroad and keep not home, you are the church's foe. But having peace within my soul, and truth on every side, I could with comfort them control, and at their charge to ride, wherefore to prison they me sent, where to the stay I lie, and can with very much content for my profession die. The prison very sweet to me, hath been since I came here, and so would also hanging be, if God would there appear. Here dwells good conscience, also peace, here be my garments white, here though in bonds I have release, from guilt which else would bite. When they do talk of banishment, of death or such like things, then to me God send hearts content, that like a fountain springs. Alas, they little think what peace, they help me too, for by their rage my comforts do increase, bless God, therefore do I. If they do give me gall to drink, then God doth sweetening cast, so much there too, that they can't think how bravely it doth taste. For as the devil sets before me heaviness and grief, so God sets Christ in grace much more, whereby I take relief. Though they say then that we are fools, because we here do lie, I answered jails are Christ his schools, in them we learn to die. Tis not the baseness of this state doth hide us from God's face. He frequently, both soon and late, doth visit us with grace. Here come the angels, here come saints, here comes the spirit of God, to comfort us in our restraints, under the wicked's rod. God sometimes visits prisoners, more than lordly palaces. He often knocketh at the door, when he their houses miss. The truth and life of heavenly things lift up our hearts on high, and carry us on eagle's wings, beyond carnality. It takes away those clogs that hold the hearts of other men, and makes us lively, strong and bold, thus to oppose their sin. By which means God doth frustrate, that which our foes expect, namely our turning the apostate, like those of Judas' sect. Here comes to our remembrance the troubles good men had, of old and for our furtherance, their joys when they were sad, to them that here for evil lie, the place is comfortless, but not to me, because I lie here for righteousness. The truth and I were both here cast together, and we do lie arm in arm, and so hold fast each other. This is true. This jail to us is as a hill, from whence we plainly see, beyond this world, and take our fill of things that lasting be. From hence we see the emptiness of all the world contains, and here we feel the blessedness that for us yet remains. Here we can see how all men play their parts as on a stage, how good men suffer for God's way, and bad men at them rage. Here we can see who holds that ground which they in scripture find. Here we see also who turns round, like weather cocks with wind. We can also from hence behold how seeming friends appear, but hypocrites as we are told in scripture everywhere. When we did walk at liberty, we were deceived by them, who we from hence do clearly see are vile, deceitful men. These politicians that profess for base and worldly ends do not appear to us at best, but Machiavellian friends. Though men do say we do disgrace ourselves by lying here, among the rogues, yet Christ our face from all such filth will clear. We know there's neither flout nor fron that we now for him bear, but we'll add to our heavenly crown when he comes in the air. When he our righteousness forth brings bright shining as the day, and wipeeth off those slanderous things that scorners on us lay. We sell our earthly happenings for heavenly house and home. We leave this world because tis less and worse than that to come. We change our drossy dust for gold from death to life we fly. We let go shadows and take hold of immortality. We trade for that which lasting is and nothing for it give, but that which is already his by whom we breathe and live. That liberty we lose for him, sickness might take away. Our goods might also for our sin by fire or thieves decay. Again we see what glory tis freely to bear our cross, for him who for us took up his when he our servant was. I am most free that men should see a hole cut through my ear. If others will ascertain me, they'll hang a jewel there. Just thus it is we suffer here for him a little pain, who when he doth again appear, will with him let us reign. If all must either die for sin, a death that's natural, or else for Christ tis best with him, who for that last doth fall. Who now dare say we throw away our goods or liberty? When God's most holy were doth say, we gained thus much thereby. Hark yet again you carnal men and hear what I shall say. In your our own dialect and then I'll you no longer stay. You talk sometimes of valor much and count much bravely manned, that will not sick to have a touch with any in the land. If there be worth commending then, that vainly show there might, how dare you blame those holy men that in God's quarrel fight. Though you dare crack a coward's crown, or quarrel for a pin, you dare not on the wicked frown, nor speak against their sin. For all your spirits are so stout for matters that are vain, yet sin besets you round about, you are in Satan's chain. You dare not for the truth engage, you quake at prismant, you dare not make the tree your stage for Christ, that king potent. Know then true valor, their doth dwell, where men engage for God, against the devil death and hell, and bear the wicked's rod. These be the men that God doth count of high and noble mind. These be the men that do surmount what you in nature find. First they do conquer their own hearts, all worldly fears and then, also the devils fiery darts and persecuting men. They conquer when they thus do fall, they kill where they do lie. They overcome then most of all and get the victory. The world lean understands not this, tis clear out of his sight. Therefore he counts this world his bliss and doth our glory slight. The lover knows not how to spring, the nimble footman's stage. Neither can Al's or Jack doth sing when they are in the cage. The swine doth not the pearls regard, but them doth slight for grains, though the wise merchant labors hard, for them with greatest pains. Consider, man, what I have said, and judge if things are right, when all men's cards are fully played, whose will abide the light? Will those who have us hither cast or they who do us scorn, or those who do our house's waste or us who this have borne? And let us count those things the best, that best will prove at last and count such men the only blessed that do such things hold fast. And what though they us dear do cost, yet let us buy them so, we shall not count our labor lost when we see others woe. And let saints be no longer blamed by carnal policy, but let the wicked be ashamed of their malignity. End of poem. This recording, read by T. Wellington, is in the public domain. A Psalm of Praise by Richard Baxter, read for LibriVox.org by T. Wellington. A Psalm of Praise. Ye holy angels bright, which stand before God's throne, and dwell in glorious light, praise ye the Lord each one. You there so nigh are much more meat than we the feet for things so high. You bless souls at rest that see our Savior's face, whose glory even the least is far above our grace. God's praises sound as in his sight with sweet delight you do abound. All nations of the earth extol the world's great king with melody and mirth, his glorious praises sing, for he still reigns and will bring low the proudest foe that him disdains. Sing forth Jehovah's praise, ye saints that on him call, magnify him always, his holy churches all in him rejoice, and there proclaim his holy name with sounding voice. My soul bear thou thy part, triumph in God above, with a well-tuned heart sing thou the songs of love. Thou art his own, whose precious blood shed for thy good, his love made known. Thou human help depart and flesh draw near to dust, let faith keep up my heart to love God true and just, and all my days let no disease cause me to cease his joyful praise. Though sin would make me doubt and fill my heart with fears, though God seemed to shut out my daily cries and tears, by no such frost or sad delays let thy sweet praise be nipped and lost. Away distrustful care, I have thy promise, Lord, to banish all despair, I have thy oath and word, and therefore I shall see thy face, and there thy grace shall magnify. Though sin and death conspire to rob thee of thy praise, still towards thee I'll aspire, and thou dull heart can't raise. Open thy door, and when grim death shall stop this breath, I'll praise thee more. With thy triumphant flock, then I shall numbered be, built on the eternal rock, his glory we shall see. The heaven so high with praise shall ring, and all shall sing in harmony. The sun is but a spark from the eternal light, its brightest beams are dark to that most glorious sight, where the whole choir with one accord shall praise the Lord forevermore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of Myself, Section 37 by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. You laggards there on guard, look to your arms. In at the conquered doors they crowd, I am possessed, embody all presences outlawed or suffering, see myself in prison, shaped like another man, and feel the dull, unintermitted pain. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch. It is I let out in the morning and barred at night. Not a mutineer walks handcuffed to jail, but I am handcuffed to him and walk by his side. I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one would sweat on my twitching lips. Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too. I am tried and sentenced. Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp, but I also lie at the last gasp. My fate is ash-colored, my sinews gnarled, away from me people retreat. Askers embody themselves in me, and I am embodied in them. I project my hat, sit shame-faced, and beg. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song of Myself, Section 38 by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Enough, enough, enough. Somehow I have been stunned. Stand back. Give me a little time beyond my cuffed head, slumbers, dreams, gaping. I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake, that I could forget the mockers and insults, that I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers, that I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning. I remember now. I resume the overstayed fraction. The grave of Brock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves. Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me. I troop forth, replenished with supreme power, one of an average unending procession, inland and sea coast we go, and pass all boundary lines. Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth. The blossoms we wear in our hats, the growth of thousands of years. He leaves, I salute you, come forward, continue your annotations, continue your questionings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sorrows of Werther by William Makepeace Othecoray. Read for LibriVox.org by Juliva Malikiam. Werther had a love for Charlotte, such as words could never utter. Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting red and butter. Charlotte was a married lady and a moral man was Werther, and for all the wealth of Indies would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and doggled, and his passion boiled and bubbled, till he blew his silly brains out, and no more was by a troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body, born before her on the shutter, like a well-conducted person, went on cutting bread and butter. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tommy by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox.org by Michael Downing. I went into a public house to get a pint of beer. The publican, he up and says, we serve no redcoats here. The girls behind the bar, they laughed and giggled fit to die. I outs into the street again and to myself says I, oh, it's Tommy this and Tommy that and Tommy go away. But it's thank you, Mr. Atkins, when the band begins to play. The band begins to play, my boys. The band begins to play. Oh, it's thank you, Mr. Atkins, when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be. They gave a drunk civilian room, but I hadn't none for me. They sent me to the gallery, all round the musicals. But when it comes to fighting, Lord, they'll shove me in the stalls. For it's Tommy this and Tommy that and Tommy wait outside. But it's special train for Atkins when the troopers on the tide. Yes, making mocker uniforms that guard you while you sleep is cheaper than them uniforms than their starvation cheap. And hustling drunken soldiers when they go in large a bit is five times better business than parading in full kit. Then it's Tommy this and Tommy that and Tommy out just soul. But it's thin red line of euros when the drums begin to play. But it's thank you, Mr. Atkins, when the band begins to play. It's thin red line of euros when the drums begin to roll. The drums begin to roll, my boys. The drums begin to roll. Oh, it's thin red line of euros when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red euros, nor we aren't no blackards, too. But single men in barracks most remarkable like you. And if sometimes our conduct isn't all your fancy paints, why single men in barracks don't grow into plaster saints? Tommy this and Tommy that and Tommy full behind. But it's pleased to walk in front, sir, when there's trouble in the wind. There's trouble in the wind, my boys. There's trouble in the wind. Oh, it's pleased to walk in front, sir, when there's trouble in the wind. You talk a better food for us and schools and fires and all. We'll wait for extra rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook room slops, but prove it to our face. The widow's uniform is not the soldier man's disgrace. It's Tommy this and Tommy that and chuck him out of brute. But it's savior of his country when the guns begin to shoot. And it's Tommy this and Tommy that and anything you please. And Tommy...