 IN THE MORNING OF LIFE by Thomas Moore Red for LibraVox.org by David Laundra In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, and its pleasures and all their new luster begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own, and the light that surrounds us is all from within, though it is not, believe me, in that happy time we can love as in hours of less transport we may. Of our smiles, of our hopes, is the gay sunny prime. But affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup which had sparkled with pleasures so high, first tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and a tenderness joy never new. Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they. But the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. In climbs full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, it is the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of pregnancy forth. So it is not mid-splendor, prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears. To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, and its pleasures in all their new luster begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own, and the light that surrounds us is all from within. O, tis not, believe me, in that happy time we can love, as in hours of less transport we may. Of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which is sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other the dark flowing urn. Then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and a tenderness joy never knew. Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow is true. In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of pregnancy forth. So it is not mid-splendor, prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears. To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. In the morning of life, by Thomas More, read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Batinama, Amsterdam, the Netherlands. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, and its pleasures and all their new lust begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own, and the light that surrounds us is all from within. It is not, believe me, in that happy time we can love, as in hours of less transport we may. Of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by like a leaf on the stream that will never return. When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway, with a depth and a tenderness, joy never new. Love nursed among pleasures as faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth, this cloud in the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of frequency forth. So it is not mid-splendour, prosperity mirth, that a depth of love's generous spirit appears. To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In the Morning of Life by Thomas Moore, read for LibriVox.org by Jan McGillivray. In the Morning of Life, when its cares are unknown, and its pleasures in all their new luster begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own, and the light that surrounds us is all from within, O'tis not, believe me, in that happy time we can love as in hours of less transport we may. Of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and a tenderness joy never new. Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. In climbs full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that recall the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. So it is not mid-splendor prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears. To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In the Morning of Life by Thomas Moore, read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. In the morning of life when its cares are unknown and its pleasures in all their new lusts to begin, when we live in a bright, beaming world of our own and the light that surrounds us is all from within. Oh, tis not, believe me, in that happy time we can love as in hours of less transport we may. Of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway, with a depth and a tenderness joy never new, love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. When climbs full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of pregnancy forth. So it is not mid-splendor, prosperity mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears, to the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. In the Morning of Life by Thomas Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina In the morning of life when its cares are unknown and its pleasures in all their new luster begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own and the light that surround us is all from within, oh, tis not, believe me, in that happy time we can love, as in hours of less transport we may, of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first taste of the other, the dark-flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and a tenderness joy never knew, love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. When climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of frequency forth, so it is not mid-splendor, prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears, to the sunshine of smiles it may first stow its berth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. In the morning of life by Thomas More, read Philip Vox.org by Raven Notation. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, and its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own, and the life that surrounds us is all from within, though it is not, believe me, in that happy time, we can love as in hours of less transport we may, of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and the tenderness joy never knew, love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. The climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers, that call the rich spirit a frequency forth, so it is not midsblender, prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears, to the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. In the Morning of Life by Thomas Moore. Read for LibreVox.org by Ted Doolittle. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown and its pleasures and all their new luster begin, when we live in a bright beaming world of our own and the light that surrounds us is all from within, hote is not, believe me, in that happy time we can love, as in hours of less transport we may, of our smiles, of our hopes, tis the gay, sunny prime, but affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, like a leaf on the stream that will never return, when our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, first tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn, then, then is the time when affection holds sway with a depth and a tenderness joy never new. Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, but the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true. In climbs full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth, tis the cloud and the mist of our own isle of showers that call the rich spirit of fragrance he forth, though it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth, that the depth of love's generous spirit appears, to the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, but the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.