 Ah, are you digging on my grave?" by Thomas Hardy, read for Libervox.org by William Esqueda. Ah, are you digging on my grave, my loved one, planting rue? No, yesterday he went to wed one of the brightest wealth has bred. It cannot hurt her now, he said, that I should not be true. Then who is digging on my grave, my nearest dearest kin? Ah, no, they sit and think, what use, what good will planting flowers produce? No tendons of her mound can loose her spirit from death's gin. But someone digs upon my grave, my enemy, prodding sly? Nay, when she heard you had passed the gate that shuts on all flesh sooner late, she thought you no more wereth her hate, and cares not where you lie. Then who is digging on my grave, say, since I have not guessed? Oh, it is I, my mistress dear, your little dog who still lives near, and much I hope my movements here have not disturbed your rest. Ah, yes, you dig upon my grave. Why, flashed it not to me, that one true heart was left behind, a feeling do we ever find to equal among humankind a dog's fidelity? Mistress, I dug upon your grave to bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot, and passing on my daily trot, I am sorry, but I quite forgot it was your resting place. This recording is in the public domain. A great and glorious thing it is to learn for seven years or so. The Lord knows what of that and this, a reckoned fit to face the foe. The flying bullet down the pass that whistles clear off flesh's grass, three hundred pounds per annum spent on making brain and body meter, for all the murderous intent comprised in villainous saltpeter, and after, ask the Yusuf Aziz what comes of all our oligies. A scrimmage in a border station, a counter down some dark defile, two thousand pounds of education, drops to a ten rupee jazile. The crammers boast the squadron's pride, shot like a rabbit in a ride. No proposition, Euclid wrote, no formulae the textbooks know, will turn the bullet from your coat, or ward the toluar's downward blow. Strike hard who cares, shoot straight who can, the odds are on the cheaper man. One sword not stolen from the camp will pay for all the school expenses of any quorum valley's scamp, who knows no word of mood's intensives, but being blessed with perfect sight, picks off our messmates left and right. With homebred hordes the hillside's team, the troopships bring us one by one, at vast expense of time and steam, to slay a fritties where they run. The captives of our bow and spear are cheap alas as we are dear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things, blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings, and children's faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, music like a curve of gold, scent of pine trees in the rain, eyes that love you, arms that hold, and for your spirits still delight, holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, buy it and never count the cost, for one white singing hour of peace count many a year of strife well lost, and for a breath of ecstasy give all you have been or could be. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bereavement. From Shapes of Clay by Ambrose Bierce. Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Groothman. A Countess, so they tell the tale, who dwelt of old in Arno's Vale, where ladies, even of high degree, know more of love than ABC, came once with a prodigious bribe unto the learned village scribe, that most discreet and honest man who wrote for all the lover-clan, nor ere a secret had betrayed, save when inadequately paid, write me, she sobbed, I pray thee do, a book about the Prince de Gu, a book of poetry and praise of all his works and all his ways, the godlike grace of his address, his more than woman's tenderness, his courage, stern, and lack of guile, the loves that wantoned in his smile, so great he was, so rich and kind, I'll not within a fortnight find his equal as a lover, oh, my God, I shall be drowned in woe. What? Prince de Gu has died, exclaimed the honest man for letters famed, and while he pocketed her gold, of what, if I may be so bold? Fresh storms of tears, the lady shed, I stabbed him fifty times, she said. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bereft, she thinks she dreams, by Thomas Hardy, read for LibriVox.org by Quaker Woodworker. I dream that the dearest I ever knew has died and been entombed. I'm sure it's a dream that cannot be true, but I am so over gloomed by its persistence that I would gladly have quick death take me, rather than longer think thus sadly. So wake me, wake me. It has lasted days, but minute and hour I expect to get aroused and find them as usual in the bower where we so happily housed. Yet stays this nightmare too appalling, and like a web shakes me, and piteously I keep on calling, and no one wakes me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Blight, by Edna St. Vincent Millay, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. Hard seeds of hate I planted, that should by now be grown, rough stalks, and from thick stamens a poisonous pollen blown, and odours rank unbreathable from dark corollas thrown. At dawn from my damp garden I shook the chilly dew. The thin boughs locked behind me that sprang to let me through. The blossoms slept. I sought a place where nothing lovely grew. And there, when day was breaking, I knelt and looked around. The light was near. The silence was palpitant with sound. I drew my hate from out my breast, and thrust it in the ground. Oh ye so fiercely tended, ye little seeds of hate. I bent above your growing, early and noon and late. Yet are ye drooped and pitiful. I cannot rear ye straight. The sun seeks out my garden. No nook is left in shade. No mist nor mold nor mildew endures on any blade. Sweet rain slants under every bough. A falter, and ye fade. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Blossom by John Don, read for Librevox.org by Frédéric Siorger. Little thinkers dare pull flower. When I have watched six or seven days, and seen thy birth, and seen what every hour gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise. And now dost laugh and triumph on this path. Little thinkers dare that it will freeze an arm, and that I shall, tomorrow, find thee fallen or not at all. Little thinkers dare pull heart. That labor is yet to nest all thee. And thinkers, by hovering here to get a part, and forbidden of forbidden tree, and hopest her stiffness by long siege to bow. Little thinkers dare, and dare, tomorrow, hear the sun doth wake, must with the sun and me a journey take. But there which lovest to be, subtle to plague thyself, wilt I say. Alas, if you must go, what that to me? Here lies my business, and here will I stay. You go to friends whose love and means present various content, to your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part. If then your body go, what need your heart? Well then, stay here, but know when there hath said, and done thy most, a naked thinking heart that makes no show, is to a woman, but a kind of ghost. How shalt she know my heart? Or having none, know thee for one. Practice may make her know some other part, but take my word, she doth not know the heart. Meet me in London, then, twenty days hence, and thou shalt see me fresher and more fat by being with men, than if I hath stayed still with her on thee. For God's sake, if you can, be you so too. I will give you there to another friend whom you shall find as glad to have my body as my mind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE CITY OF GO GANUZA, by William Blake, from Vala, or the Four Zoas, first published in 1893 by William Butler Yates. LOS WALKS ROUND THE WALLS NIGHT AND DAY. HE VIEWS THE CITY OF GO GANUZA AND IT'S SMALLER CITIES. THE LUMES AND MILS AND PRISONS AND WORKHOUSES OF AUG AND ANOCK. THE AMALICITE. THE CANONITE. THE MOABITE. THE EGYPTION. AND ALL THAT HAS EXISTED IN THE SPACE OF SIX THOUSAND YEARS, PERMANENT AND NOT LOST, NOT LOST, NOR VANISHED, AND EVERY LITTLE ACT, WORD, WORK, AND WISH THAT HAS EXISTED, ALL REMAINING STILL IN THOSE CHURCHES, EVER CONSUMING, AND EVER BUILDING BY THE SPECTURES OF ALL THE INHABITANTS OF EARTH, WILLING TO BE CREATED. SHATTERY TO THOSE WHO DWELL NOT IN THEM, MEAR POSSIBILITIES, BUT TO THOSE WHO ENTER INTO THEM, THEY SEEM THE ONLY SUBSTANCES, FOR EVERYTHING EXISTS, AND NOT ONE SIDE, NOR SMILE, NOR TEAR, ONE HAIR, ONE PARTICLE OF DUST, NOT ONE CAN PASS AWAY. END OF POMPE. THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. THE CLOUD. BY ALEXANDER PUSHKIN, TRANSLATED BY IVAN PANON. RED FOR LIBERVOX.ORG BY joshkibby. O last cloud of the scattered storm, alone thou sailest along the azure clear, alone thou bringest the shadow somber, alone thou marst the joyful day. Thou but recently hadst encircled the sky, when sternly the lightning was winding about thee, thou gavest forth mysterious thunder, with rain hast watered the parched earth. Enough, high thyself, thy time hath passed, earth is refreshed, the storm hath fled, and the breeze, fondling the trees, leaves forth thee chases from the quieted heavens. END OF POMPE. THIS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. CONTENTMENT BY OLLIVER WENDLE HOME SENIOR. RED FOR LIBERVOX.ORG BY RUTH GEDARD. CONTENTMENT BY OLLIVER WENDLE HOME SENIOR. MAN WANTS, BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW. LITTLE I ASK MY WANTS OR FEW. I ONLY WISH A HUT OF STONE. A very plain brown stone will do that I may call my own. And close at hand is such a one, in yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me. Three courses are as good as ten. If nature can subsist on three, thank heaven for three. Amen. I always thought cold, victual nice. My choice would be vanilla ice. I care not much for gold or land. Give me a mortgage here and there. Some good bank stock, some note of hand, or trifling railroad share. I only ask that fortune send a little more than I shall spend. Honours are silly toys, I know. And titles are but empty names. I would perhaps be plenipal, but only near St. James. I'm very sure I should not care to fill our gubernator's chair. Jewels are bobbles, tis a sin to care for such unfruitful things. One good-sized diamond in a pin, some not so large in rings. A ruby and a pearl or so will do for me, I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire. Good heavy silks are never dear. I own perhaps I might desire some shawls of true cashmere. Some merrily crepes of china silk like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive so fast that folks must up and stare. An easy gate, two forty-five, suits me, I do not care. Perhaps for just a single spurt some seconds less would do no harm. Of pictures I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four. I love so much their style and tone, one turner and no more. A landscape, foreground golden dirt, the sunshine painted with a squirt. A book's but few, some fifty score, for daily use and bound for wear. The rest upon an upper floor, some little luxury there. A red Morocco's gilded gleam and vellum rich as country cream. Bus, cameos, gems, such things as these, which others often show for pride, my value for their power to please, and selfish churros to ride. One strativarius I confess, two mershams I would feign possess. Whilst wasteful tricks I will not learn, nor ape the glittering upstart fool, shall not carve tables serve my turn, but all must be a fool. Give grasping pomp its double share, I ask but one recumbent share. Thus humble let me live and die, nor long for might as golden touch. If heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much. Too grateful for the blessing lint of simple taste and mind can tempt. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daughters of Bula by William Blake from Vala or the Four Zoas. Read for LibriVox.org. There is from great eternity a mild and pleasant rest named Bula, a soft, moony universe, feminine, lovely, pure, mild and gentle, given in mercy to all those who sleep, eternally created by the Lamb of God, around on all sides, within and without the universal man. The Daughters of Bula follow after sleepers in their dreams, creating spaces, lest they fall into eternal death. The circle of destiny complete, they give to it a space, named the space Uro, brooded over it in care and love. They said, this factor is in every man insane and most deformed. Through the three heavens descending in fury and fire we meet it with our songs and loving blandishments, and give to it a form of vegetation. But this factor of tharmus is eternal death. What shall we do? Oh God pity and help! So spoke they, and closed the gate of the tongue in trembling fear, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Delight and Disorder by Robert Herrick. Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a wantonness, a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction, an airing lace which here and there enthralls the crimson stomacher, a cuff neglectful and thereby ribbons deflow confusedly, a winning wave deserving note in the tempestuous petticoat, a careless shoestring in whose tie I see a wild civility. Do more bewitch me than when art is too precise in every part. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Early Away by Edward Moriki. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. The morning frost shines grey along the misty field, beneath the pallid way of early dawn revealed. Amid the glow one sees the day-star disappear. Yet over the western trees the moon is shining clear. So too I send my glance on distant scenes to dwell. I see in torturing trance the night of our farewell. Blue eyes, a lake of bliss, swim dark before my sight. Thy breath I feel, thy kiss. I hear thy whispering light. My cheek upon thy breast, the streaming tears bid you till purple black, his cast avail across my view. The sun comes out, he glows, and straight my dreams depart, while from the cliffs he throws a chill across my heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Easter by Edmund Spencer. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day didst make thy triumph over death and sin, and having harrowed hell didst bring away captivity, then kept it us to win. This glorious day, dear Lord, with joy began, and grant that we, for whom thou didst die, being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, may live forever in felicity, and that thy love we wane worthily may likewise love thee for the same again, and for thy sake that all like dear didst buy, with love may one another entertain. So let us love, dear love, like as we ought. Love is the lesson which the Lord has taught. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Elegy by D. H. Lawrence. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. The sun, immense and rosy, must have sunk and become extinct the night you closed your eyes for ever against me. Gray days, and wand'ry donnings since then, with fritter flowers, day wearies me with its ostentation and fawnings. Still, you left me the nights, the great dark glittery window, the bubble hemming this empty existence with lights. Still in the vast hollow like a breath and a bubble spinning, brushing the stars goes my soul that skims the bounds like a swallow. I can look through the film of the bubble, night to where you are. Through the film I can almost touch you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Enough by Sarah Teasdale. Read for LibriVox.org by Helen Ferrara for Jean. It is enough for me by day to walk the same bright earth with him. Enough that over us by night the same great roof of stars is dim. I do not hope to bind the wind or set a feather on the sea. It is enough to feel his love blow by like music over me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Forsaken Maiden by Edward Muracky. Translated by Charles Wharton-Stork. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Early when cocks do crow, air the stars dwindle. Down to the hearth I go, fire must I kindle. Fair leap the flames on high, sparks they whirl drunken. I watch them listlessly in sorrow sunken. Sudden it comes to me, youth so fair seeming, that all the night of thee I have been dreaming. Tears then on tears do run for my false lover. Thus has the day begun. Would it were over? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Frog by Hill Airbellock. From the Bad Child's Book of Beasts. Read for LibriVox.org by Cleve Callison. March 19, 2019. Wilmington, North Carolina. Be kind and tender to the frog, and do not call him names, as slimy skin or polywog or likewise ugly James, or gap a grin, or toad gone wrong, or bill bandy knees. The frog is justly sensitive to epithets like these. No animal will more repay a treatment kind and fair. At least so lonely people say, who keep a frog, and by the way, they are extremely rare. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Garden by Gertrude Huntington-McGifford. Read for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibbey. Old gardens have a language of their own, and a mine-sweet speech to linger in the heart. A goodly place it is and primely spaced, with straight, box-boarded paths and squares of bloom. Bay trees by rows of antique urns tell tales of one who loved the garden's Dante loved. Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool, and flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads to blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. Azaleas by the scarlet quints flame up, against the lustrous grapevines trellis'd high, to pigeoncoat an old brick wall where hide first snow-drops in the bravest violets. A place of solitudes, whose silences unfold, the heart is an unquiet bird. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hymns and Anthems sung at Wellesley College by Caroline Hazard. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. 1. Mount Carmel Where art thou, O my Lord? Mount Carmel saw the throng of priests and heard the song. To Bale was their call, from morn till night did fall. Where art thou, O my Lord? Again, Mount Carmel heard, not in the spoken word, not in the earthquake's shock, not in the thunder roll, but in the inmost soul. 2. Vesper hymn Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night, to keep us till the morning light, and let no vision of alarm come near to do thy children harm. Within thy circling arms we lie, O God, in thine infinity. Our souls in quiet shall abide beset with love on every side. 3. This is that bread. This is that bread that came down from heaven. He that eateth of this bread shall live for ever. Bread on which angels feed, bread for the Spirit's need. By faith receiving new life do thou impart, new strength to every heart, pure love of God thou art to us believing. 4. Slow of heart Oh, slow of heart to believe. Art Christ not to have suffered these things and to enter into his glory? Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart. Touch my eyes that they may see. Let me know thee as thou art, life in immortality. 5. All hail to thee, Child Jesus All hail to thee, Child Jesus. As the booting darkness flies as the swift approach of day, sun of righteousness arise, chase the gloom of night away. Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, and build in every heart thy throne. Come to share thy healing balm on all the nations of the earth. Child Jesus, come with holy calm. We will hail thy wondrous birth. Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, and build in every heart thy throne. All hail to thee, Child Jesus. 6. The Wine Press Who is this that comes from Edom in such glorious array, with his festal garments gleaming, traveling on his royal way, with a face majestic, calm, and gray? I that speak in righteousness mighty to say. Why is thy apparel crimson? Why is all thy garments pride stained as in the time of vintage, and with blood red color dyed? Because of helpers I had none, I have troddened the Wine Press alone. 7. Waken Shepherds Angels, Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna Shepherds, Waken Shepherds, Waken, whence this glowing light, ere the dawn of morning solemn signs of warning for tint of a fright. Angels, Courage, Shepherds, Courage, Banish your dismay, for ye all are saved in the town of David, Christ is born today. Shepherds, Harken, Shepherds, Harken, hear the angels sing, Jehovah sends a token he himself has spoken to proclaim our King. Angels, Hasten, Shepherds, hasten, this shall be your sign, where the kind are stapled in a manger crater, lies the child divine. Shepherds and Angels, Angels, Shepherds, people, shout the glad refrain, joy to every nation bringing full salvation, Christ has come to reign, Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. I Care Not For These Ladies, by Thomas Campion Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon I care not for these ladies that must be wooed and prayed. Give me kind Amaryllis, the wanton countrymaid. Nature, Artus Daneth. Her beauty is her own. Her, when we court and kiss, she cries, Forsooth, let go. But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no. If I love Amaryllis, she gives me fruit and flowers. But if we love these ladies, we must give golden showers. Give them gold that sell love. Give me the nut-brown lass. Who, when we court and kiss, she cries, Forsooth, let go. But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no. These ladies must have pillows and beds by strangers wrought. Give me a bower of willows, of moss and leaves unbought. And fresh Amaryllis, with milk and honey fed. Who, when we court and kiss, she cries, Forsooth, let go. But when we come where comfort is, she never will say no. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Whips, the charioteers. They cry unto the night their battle-name. I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. They come shaking in triumph their long green hair. They come out of the sea and run, shouting by the shore, My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In the Garden by F. S. Flint. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. The grass is beneath my head, and I gaze at the thronging stars and the aisles of night. They fall, they fall, I am overwhelmed and afraid. Each little leaf of the aspen is caressed by the wind, and each is crying, and the perfume of invisible roses deepens the anguish. Let a strong mesh of roots feed the crimson of roses upon my heart, and then fold over the hollow where all the pain was. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. John Brown's Song by Henry Howard Brownell Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. John Brown's Song Words That Can Be sung to the Hallelujah Chorus O John Brown, lies a molding in the grave. O John Brown, lies slumbering in his grave. But John Brown's soul is marching with the brave. His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. His soul is marching on. He has gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord. He's sworn as a private in the ranks of the Lord. He shall stand at Armageddon with his brave old sword, when heaven is marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, for heaven is marching on. He shall file in front where the lines of battle form. He shall face to front when the squares of battle form. Time with the color men charge in the storm, where men are marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. True men are marching on. Foul tyrants, do you hear him where he comes? Are black traitors, do you know him as he comes? In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drum says, we go marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Dust men may die and arise again from dust. Shoulder to shoulder in the ranks of the just, when heaven is marching on. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Journey by Edna St. Vincent Malay. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass and close my eyes and let the quiet wind blow over me? I am so tired, so tired of passing pleasant places. All my life, following care along the dusty road, have I looked back at loveliness and sighed, yet at my hand an unrelenting hand tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long, over my shoulder, have I looked at peace, and now I feign would lie in this long grass and close my eyes. Yet onward, catabirds call through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk are guttural. Whipper wills wake and cry, drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines go up the rocks and wait. Flushed apple trees pause in their dance and break the ring for me. Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern and babery, that through sweet bevy's thread of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, look back and beckon ear they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side, all through the dragging day, sharp underfoot and hot, and like a dead mist the dry dust hangs. But far, oh, far as passionate I can reach, and long, ah, long as rapturous I can cling, the world is mine. Blue hill, still silver lake, broad field, bright flower, and the long white road, a gaitless garden, and an open path, my feet to follow and my heart to hold. It is too early for white bows, too late for snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall a few last flakes, ragged and delicate. Down the stripped roads the maples start their small, soft, wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks are rich and deepening red. The willow tree is woolly. In deserted garden walks the lean bush, crouching, hence old royalty, feel some june star in the sharp air and nose, soon twill leap up and show the world a rose. The days go out with shouting, nights are loud, wild, warring shapes, the wood lifts in the cold. The moon's a sword of keen, barbaric gold, plunged to the hilt in a pitch black cloud. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Sweetest Lesbia, inspired in part by the Roman poet Catullus by Thomas Campion, read for LibriVox.org by Cleve Callison, Wilmington, North Carolina, March 28, 2019. My Sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, and though the Sager sort our deeds reprove, let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive into their west and straight again revive. But soon as once set is our little light, then we must sleep one ever-during night. If all would lead their lives in love like me, then bloody swords and armor should not be. No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleep should move, unless alarm came from the camp of love. But fools do live and waste their little light, and seek with pain their ever-during night. When timely death my life and fortune ends, let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends, but let all lovers, rich in triumph, come and with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb. And Lesbia, close up thou my little light, and crown with love my ever-during night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I have whirled with the earth at the dawning, when the sky was a vaporous flame. I have seen the dark universe yawning, where the black planets roll without aim, where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name. I had drifted or seas without ending, under sinister gray-clouded skies, that the many-forked lightning is rending, that resound with hysterical cries. With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise. I have plunged like a deer through the arches, of the hoary primordial grove, where the oaks feel the presence that marches, and stalks on where no spirit dares rove. And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above. I have stumbled by cavered in mountains, that rise barren and bleak from the plain. I have drunk of the fog-fetted mountains, that ooze down to the marsh in the main. And in hot-cursed terns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again. I have scammed the vast ivy-clad palace, I have trod its untenanted hall, where the moon rising up from the valleys, shows the tapestry things on the wall. Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall. I have peered from the casements in wonder, at the mouldering meadows around, at the many-roofed village lay under, the curse of a grave-girdled ground, and from rows of white-earned carven marble, I listen intently for sound. I have haunted the tombs of the ages, I have flown on the pinions of fear, where the smoke-belching arabes rages, where the jocles loom snow-clad in drear. And in realms where the sun of the desert, consumes what it never can cheer. I was old when the pharaohs first mounted, the jewel-decked thrown by the Nile. I was old in those epics uncounted, when I, and I only, was vile. And man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far-arctic Isle. O great was the sin of my spirit, and great is the reach of its doom. Not the pity of heaven can cheer it, nor can respite be found in the tomb. Down the infinite eons, come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom. Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, past the wan-mooned abysses of night, I have lived over my lives without number, I have sounded all things with my sight, and I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE PASSING OF THE BACKHOUSE by James Whitcombe Reilly When memory keeps me company, and moves to smile or tears, a weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years. Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more, and hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door. Its architecture was a type of simple classic art, but in the tragedy of life it played a leading part. And oft the passing traveller drove slow, and heaved a sigh, to see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy. We had our posy garden that the women loved so well. I loved it too, but, better still, I loved the stronger smell that filled the evening breezes, so full of homely cheer, and told the night or taken tramp that human life was near. On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower delightful, where my grand sire sat, and whiled away an hour. For there the summer mornings its very cares entwined, and berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind. All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies, that flitted to and from the house where ma was baking pies, and once a swarm of hornets bold had built their palace there, and stung my unsuspecting aunt, I must not tell you where. My father took a flaming pole, that was a happy day. He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay. When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse, we banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs. But when the crust is on the snow and sullen skies were gray, inside the building was no place where one could wish to stay. We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind. We teared not nor lingered long on what we left behind. The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob, for needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob, that from a frost encrusted nail suspended from a string. My father was a frugal man, and wasted not a thing. When Grandpa had to go out back and make his morning call, we bundled up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl. I knew the hole on which he sat was padded all around, and once I tried to sit there, it was all too wide, I found. My loins were all too little, and I jackknifed there to stay. They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away. My father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun, and I just used the children's hole till childhood days were done. And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true, the baby's hole and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue. That dear old country landmark, I tramped around a bit, and in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit, but ere I die I'll eat the fruits of trees I robbed of yore, then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door. I wean that old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul. I'm now a man, but nonetheless I'll try the children's hole. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A poem on the great exhibition of the industry of all nations, to which the Vice Chancellor's first prize was awarded at the University of Dublin, by H. Tilney Bassett, T.C.D., read for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibbe. Of science and the benefits which rise from iron labour and the artist's skill, how by the dint of his stern energies man make a thaw of things subject to his will, lifting by slow degrees dark superstitions cloud, which covered all the world as with a sable shroud. From hence my song a theme sublimer far than feats of chivalry and hero's deed, when war's red banner was the meteor star that led her votaries o'er the sanguine field, through carnage gory rinks and plunder sword and flame, to gain in history's page the title deeds to fame. War formed the dream of youth, the minstrel's lay, the laurel wreath, the foes and triumph led, that people's lot acclaimed the penance gay had o'er its terrors such a luster shed, as gilded by their witchery a land's distress, the widow's bursting sigh, the matron's loneliness. In ages fled such was the path to praise, scorned were the gifts of peace, the bookman's lore, men sought not arts which tin the soul to raise, nor wisdom gained from learnings goodly store, their joy that tinted field, their rapture and the fight, their noblest aim the spurs which graced the belted night. But lo, as beams the first approach of day upon the forehead of the dreamy night, checkering each ebb and lock with timid ray until the face of nature gleams with light, so progress slowly dawned, and from the human mind rolled back the gloomy clouds by which it was confined. And as the night wanes over some city fair, palace and minaret inspire and dome, dimly at first seem spectral forms of air, striving to pierce the circumambient gloom, until each arch and cornice burst upon the site, pranked by the wakened sun with streams of ruddy light. Touched by her wand thus rose each graceful art and science with its wonder-working train, striving to elevate the human heart and wisdom's own imperial heights to gain, forever struggling upward through the lowering storm where ignorance presides and error multi-form. In bright array there marched around her car, poet, philosopher and learned sage, proudly to stim the adverse tide of war, raised by foul faction and insincet rage. Not there is the blazonry of rank the pomp of power, ambition's empty cares which frit their little hour. But they were met by obliquy and scorn, the loud insulting laugh, the jibing sneer, thy hero's mighty progress, oft of born with not but their own genius to cheer, by lofty faith and their high destiny endued, but all these venomed shafts they never could be subdued. Thus Israel's sons moved through the teeming flood, with dauntless step and hearts devoid of fear, although the raging waters around them stood, and Pharaoh's hosts were thundering on their rear. They saw the fiery pillar hung by God's own hand, the heaven-suspended sign that led them to the land. But not to those alone be given our song, whose minds prolific formed each useful plan, feign with the muse in grateful strain prolong the praises of the humble artisan, those heritors of toil who, with such patience skill, produce great schemes of arc and mold them to their will. And lo, with these there dwells a giant white of iron-thues and matchless strength of limb. To these his sons he seems with smiles bedite, but to the churl he shows a visage grim. Labor his mighty name, no dainty child I trow, but though rugged mean, full much doth he bestow. By him inspired they delved the wondrous mine, fashioned the ruddy oar, and brought to light the glittering gem else ever doomed to shine, midst hitting caves of simp eternal night. By sturdy labor fire they bent the stubborn steel, and made the iron mass the ponderous hammer-feel. They bade the ship along the water's march to waft the treasures of each distant land. They raised the columns pried the stately arch, all buildings fair by gifted genius-planned. Their work the Parthenon, and that eternal dome, that diadems thy brow, all thou imperial roam. They hung the heiress on the lofty loom, bespread the silk with myriad sparkling hues. On carpet soft produced the rose's bloom, the eye to charm and purple warmth to fuse. The mirrors silver sheen, the couch of lingering ease, each rare device they formed that luxury could please. What has not genius done, with toil combined, the electric wires baffled time and space, the thundering train outstrips the winged wind, that drives the clouds along an eddying race. They've changed the river's course, the lofty mountains' rent, and turned to human use each wondrous element. Heroes have found a herald of their name, departed greatness breezed in storied lays, tradition's wizard charm records the fame of Valar's sons as themes for future praise, tells of the eastern plains where Lyon Richard fought of Cressy's bloody field and matchless as in court. But now a nobler prince demands our song, the Alfred of a more enlightened age, whose praises future poets shall prolong while wisdom finds a place on history's page. Albert, among her sons thy name she shall enroll in glory's foremost rank upon her deathless scroll. It was thine the hosts of industry to raise, to kindle emulation's sacred fire, and bid them to the gold imiative praise bed nations mingled myriads to aspire. Fame bore the council's sage to every distant climb, and straight the world's applause approved the scheme sublime. Swift sailed the willing ships at thy behest, big with the trophies of a thousand lands. From north and south they came, from east and west, from Iceland's snows from India's burning sands, to Albion's lovely isle that monarch of the sea where progress is enthroned in trueborn liberty. And lo, for these a glorious palace rose, it seemed the work of some magician's hand, or such as poet's vision might disclose, raised in the moon-beams by some fairy's wand, its walls with crystal gleam upon the ravished site, to rival fancy's dreams and to fill us with the light. Who poised the nair that roof's transparent length, rich with the luster of prismatic dyes? Who could combine the beauty and the strength which grace the mazes of those galleries? See, genius smiles elate and points to Paxton's name, from whose creative mind the crystal marvel came. The work achieved, behold, in regal state, begirt by England's chivalry and pride, aloft upon her throne, Victoria's Sate, her blooming children placed on either side. Nair did the world display to monarch such a scene, and Nair was pageant-graced by such a virtuous queen. No voice was heard, until with grace divine, thatch bishop called the mingled host to prayer, then in the hallelujahs loud they join, and the anthems glorious rolled along the air, with waves of melody they swell the sacred song, and great Jehovah's praise the peeling roofs prolong. Fain would I now in faithful colors paint the trophied beauties of that matchless place, but that the heart amid such scenes grows faint, and words seem feeble to express their grace, such muse it would require to wing the lofty line, as glowed on Tass's lips with fire almost divine. Here marbles gleaming from the sculptor's hand, instinct with life and varied semblance wrought, now light and gladsome, now sublime and grand, art of such wonderful perfection brought, that a modern genius, Ene, might claim the stately praise, to arrival classic art in her most palmy days. Behold, a Grecian maid, deject for Lorne, tamed from her home by some oppressor's hand, who, like a drooping lily, seems to mourn the desolation of her fatherland. Oh, miracle of skill, me thinks the tears will start to tell the silent woe of that poor broken heart. Ah, see the Amazon with the arm appraised, grasps in her hand the fatal javelin, as starts her coarser back, alarmed, amazed, while a fierce tiger, just an act to spring, glares from its eyeball's death, death from its town's grim, death from the shaggy mane and long extended limb. Here Una's beauty soothes the lion's rage, is sweetly pictured in old Spencer's verse. Here rears the titan's form, Prometheus Sage, serenely grape beneath the thunder's curse. Here smiles a gentle maid in youth's sweet gushing prime, and here a giant frowns, grand, awful and sublime. Turnwee to other charms the intransed eyes, where silk and trophies in luxuriant flow, gleam with the luster of enameled dyes, bright as the glories which an iris glow, or as the fluckered hues with which the clouds are diet, when first the morning escapes from out the gates of night. A naan, a priceless gem, demands our gaze, shedding a luster as serene and fair, as some lone star that darts its timid rays, in silent beauty through the midnight air, e'en with such silver light thy mellow radiance shone, oh matchless co-hinore, within that crystal zone. And in the midst of this enchanted hall a fountain fair dissolves in glistening gems, which in a myriad gushing sparklets fall as if they were a shower of diadems, like youth's ideal dreams methinks that fountain spray which glitter for a while to melt an air away. Oh, what a scene now bursts upon the view, what miracles of beauty round us start, of every shade, device and form and hue, unparalleled before by human art, what splendid carpets glow, what blazed independence wave, tricked by the dancing sun and down that dazzling nave. And through the hall there flows a breathing tide, a mingled host of people infinite, children of Europe, blint with Asia's pride, and sons of Africa's swart as night, rich oriental robes, the Chinese garb grotesque, gleaming that motley throng pecant and picturesque. Ah, as we gaze, where yonder organs rear, some hand has swept the keys and lo, a sound of floating music steals upon the ear, and straight the roofs reverberate around, anon the notes are hushed, the lingering murmur dies, in oft-repeated strains of echoed symphonies. And to now to other scenes are footsteps stray, lost in the mazes of those long-drawn aisles, well-pleased wherever fancy leads the way, our beauty lures us with a thousand wiles, mid luxuries of art in rich perfusion-blint, which industry and skill from every land have sent. By stately altars now we onward move, by chalice, crucifix and gleaming bell, by gorgeous vestments bright with golden wove, as if embroidered by some fairy spell, by antique-carved work enriched with scroll and flower, wrought in the knotty oak with rare artistic power. Anon we stand within a rich divan, such as a sultan's presence might be seen, bedecked with cushion, shawl and dot a man, and curtains falling in a silken stream, carpets from Persia's loom on which the footstep dies, soundless as flakes of snow descend from northern skies. Here cunning goldsmith's work beset with gyms is formed in rare device by mimic art, see lofty palm trees rise on golden stems, or laughing dryads from their coppice start, or merry bounding fawns all wrought in silver sheen, with grinning satter's glance from out a leafy screen. Now science beckons us to her domain, to view the triumphs of the searching mind, by which her worshippers have learned to gain, and empire or earth, sea and fire and wind, have taught the mysteries of nature to obey, and bound them everlastingly beneath their sway. Here engines formed a dart with lightning speed, like strange volcanoes belching fire and smoke, through woods or rivers, bosky plain and mead, through mountains echoing to their laboring stroke, unchecked by obstacles subduing envious time, to link by kindred bonds each distant place and climb. But endless mazes of machinery, wheels upon wheels that run a ceaseless round, made burnished brass and wondrous tracery, of blending lines on every side abound, these trophies of her power philosophy has brought, produced by patient skill and centuries of thought. And thus his progress, a sure triumph won, passing unscathed amid her thousand foes, at length the brighter era has begun, than annals of past ages can disclose. The glorious dawn of day has struggled into birth, and industry's brave sons have gained the meat of worth. And now enchanted pair dies farewell, thy brilliant pageantry alas is o'er, the wand is broken, and dissolved the spell, which charm the nations to fare I'll be unsure. The busy hum of praise, the fountain's murmuring spray, are as a tale that's told, a vision passed away. But not in vain we trust that goodly sight of nations met in charity and love, oh, may they never strive to gain the light, and use the gifts of wisdom from above. Oh, let the hosts of earth their grateful panes raise, to hail the source of peace, Jehovah's love to praise. Praise him, ye sons of intellect sublime, poet, philosopher, and learned sage. Praise him, ye votaries of every climb, who in the paths of progress would engage. Oh, praise his holy name, from whom such gifts do flow, his tongue can never tell, and heart can never know. Politics from Shapes of Clay by Ambrose Bierce Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grothman That land full surely hastens to its end, where public sycophants in homage bend the populace to flatter, and repeat the doubled echoes of its loud conceit. Surely their attitude, but high their aim, they creep to eminence through paths of shame. Till fixed securely in the seats of power, the dupes they flattered, they at last devour. End of poem Regret by Olivia Ward Bush Banks Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf I said a thoughtless word one day, a loved one heard, and went away. I cried, forgive me, I was blind, I would not wound or be unkind. I waited long, but all in vain, to win my loved one back again, too late alas to weep and pray. Death came, my loved one passed away. Then what a bitter fate was mine, no language could my grief define. Tears of deep regret could not unsay the thoughtless word I spoke that day. End of poem Remembrance by Aline Kilmer Read for LibriVox.org by Katherine McGaze I went back to a place I knew when I was very, very small. The same old yellow roses grew against the same old wall. Each thing I knew was in its place. The well, the white stones by the road, the box hedge with its cobweb lace, and a small spotted toad. And yet the place seemed changed and still. The house itself had shrunk, I know. And then my eyes began to fill, for I had always loved it so. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Smile by William Blake Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf There is a smile of love, there is a smile of deceit, and there is a smile of smiles in which these two smiles meet. And there is a frown of hate, and there is a frown of disdain, and there is a frown of frowns which you strive to forget in vain. For it sticks in the heart's deep core, and it sticks in the deep backbone, and no smile that ever was smiled, but only one smile alone. That betwixt the cradle in grave, it only once smiled can be. And when it once is smiled, there's an end to all misery. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. A Song for Two in the Night by Edward Murica. Translated by Charles Wharton-Stork Read for LibriVox.org by Ian King and Newgate Novelist How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses And breathing music through the woodland passes Now that the upstart day is dumb, one hears from the still earth a whispering throng of forces animate, with murmured song joining the zephyr's well attuned hum. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming, which, sensuous on the warm wind, drifts to me, while streaked with misty light, uncertainly, the very heavens in the glow are swimming. The air like woven fabric seems to wave, then more transparent and more lustrous groweth. Meantime a muted melody out-goeth From happy fairies in their purple cave. To sphere-rot harmony sing they, and, busily, the thread upon their silver spindles floweth. O lovely night, how effortless and free, O say might black, though green by day, thou movest. And to the whirring music that thou lovest, thy foot advances imperceptibly. Thus, hour by hour, thy step doth measure, Intranced, self-forgetful pleasure, thou art wrapped. Creation's soul is wrapped with thee. A song of death. It is a song of vala. The fallen man takes his repose. Euryzen slept in the porch. Luvah and vala wake, and fly up from the human heart into the brain. From thence upon the pillow, vala slumbered. And Luvah seized the horses of light, and rose into the chariot of day. Sweet laughter seized me in my sleep, silent and close I laughed. For in the visions of vala I walked with the mighty fallen one. I heard his voice among the branches, and among sweet flowers. Why is the light of Eneth Tharman darkened in the dewy morn? Why is the silence of Eneth Tharman a cloud, and her smile a whirlwind? Uttering this darkness in my hall, and in the pillars of my holy ones. Why dost thou weep as vala, and wet thy veil with dewy tears, in slumbers of my night repose, infusing a false mourning, dividing the female emanations all away from loce? I have refused to look upon the universal vision, and wilt thou slay with death him who devotes himself to thee? If thou drive all the females from Luvah, I will drive all the males from thee, born for the sport, and amusement of man. Now drinking all his powers, I heard the sounding sea. I heard the voice weaker and weaker. The voice came and went like a dream. I awoke in my sweet bliss. Then Loce smote her upon the earth, Twas long ere she revived. He answered, darkening now within dignation, hid in smiles. I die not, Eneth Tharman, though thou singest thy song of death. Nor shall thou me torment, for I behold the fallen man, seeking to comfort vala. She will not be comforted. She rises from his throne, and seeks the shadows of her garden, weeping for Luvah, lost in bloody beams of your false mourning. Sickening lies the fallen man, his head sick, his heart faint, mighty achievement of your power. Beware the punishment. Refusing to behold the divine image which all behold and live thereby, he is sunk down into a deadly sleep. But we, immortal in our own strength, survive by stern debate, till we have drawn the Lamb of God into a mortal form. And that he must be born is certain, for one must be all, and comprehend within himself all things, both small and great. We, therefore, for whose sake all things aspire to be, and live, will so receive the divine image that among the reprobate he may be devoted to destruction from his mother's womb. Mighty achievement of your power. Beware the punishment. I see the invisible knife descending into the gardens of vala, Luvah walking upon the winds. I see the invisible knife, I see the showers of blood, I see the swords and spears of futurity. Though in the brain of man we live, and in his certainly nerves, though this bright world of all our joy is in the human brain, where you reason, and all his hosts, hang their immortal lamps, thou never shalt leave this cold expanse where watery tharmus mourns. So spoke Loss. Scorn and indignation rose upon Anatharman. Then Anatharman, reddening fierce, stretched her immortal hands. Descend, O you reason, descend with horse and chariot. Threaten me not, O visionary, these the punishment. The human nature shall no more remain, nor human acts form the rebellious spirits of heaven, but war and princedom, victory and blood. Night darkened as she spoke, a shuddering ran from east to west. A groan was heard on high. The warlike Clarion ceased. The spirits of Luvah and Vala shuddered in their orb, an orb of blood. Eternity groaned and was troubled at the image of eternal death. The wandering man bowed his faint head, and you reason descended, and the one must have murdered the man if he had not descended. Indignant, muttering low thunders, you reason descended, gloomy, sounding. Now I am God from eternity to eternity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnet 91 by William Shakespeare. Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, some in their wealth, some in their body's force, some in their garments, though new fangle deal, some in their hawks and hounds, some in their whores. And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure, wherein it finds a joy above the rest. But these particulars are not my measure. All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost, of more delight than hawks and horses be, and having thee of all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayest take all this away, and me most wretched make. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe the spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only underground are the brains of men eaten by maggots. Life in itself is nothing, an empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April, comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by William Esqueda. It seemed that out of battle I escaped down some profound dull tunnel long since scooped through caverns which titanic wars had groined, yet also their encumbered sleepers groaned, too fast in sleep or death to be bestowed. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up and stared with piteous recognition and fixed eyes, lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by a smile I knew that sullen hall. By his dead smile I knew we stood in hell. With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained, yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, and no guns whooped or down the flues made moan. Strange friend, I said, here is no cause to mourn. None, said the other, save the undone years, the hopelessness, whatever hope is yours was my hope also. I went hunting wild after the wildest beauty in the world, which lies not calm in eyes or braided hair, but mocks the steady running of the hour, and if it grieves, grieves richer than here. For of my glee might many men have laughed, and of my weeping something had been left, which now must die. I mean the truth untold, the pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled or discontent, boil bloody and be spilled. They will be swift with swiftness of the Tigris. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine and I had mystery. Wisdom was mine and I had mastery. To miss the march of this retreating world into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood has clogged the chariot wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells. Even with truths that lie too deep for taint, I would have poured my spirit without stint. But now, through wounds, not on the cess of war, foreheads of men have bled when no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark, for so you frowned. Yesterday threw me as you jab and killed. I parried, but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now. This recording is in the public domain. The cloudless day is richer at its close, a golden glory settles on the lee, soft-stealing shadows hint of cool repose, to mellowing landscape into calming sea. And in that nobler, gentler, lovelier light, the soul-to-sweeter loftier bliss inclines, freed from noonday glare the favored sight, increasing grace in earth and sky divines. But ere the purest radiance crowns the green, or fairest luster fills the expectant grove, the twilight thickens and the fleeting scene leaves but a hallowed memory of love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dark-fringed lids behind whose screen are eyes that view not earth's domain. And as I look, I feign would know, the paths were on thy dream-steps go, the spectral realms that thou canst see, with eyes veiled from the world and me. For I have likewise gazed in sleep, on things my memory scarce can keep, and from half-knowing long to spy, again the scenes before thine eye. I too have known the peaks of Thokk, the veils of Nath where dream-shapes flock, the vaults of Zinn and Well-I-Trove, why thou demanced that tapers glow? But what is this that subtly slips over thy face and bearded lips, what fear distracts thy mind and heart, that drops must from thy forehead start? Or the vision wake thine opening eyes, gleam black with clouds of other skies, and from some demonic sight I flee into the haunted night? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Toilene of Felix by Henry Van Dyke, read for Librebox.org by Larry Wilson. The Toilene of Felix, a legend on a new sane of Jesus. In the rubbish heaps of the ancient city of Oxenarinkus, near the River Nile, a party of English explorers in the winter of 1897 discovered a fragment of a papyrus book written in the second or third century, and hitherto unknown. This single leaf contained parts of seven short sentences of Christ, each introduced by the words Jesus says. It is to the fifth of these sayings of Jesus that the following poem refers. The Toilene of Felix, 1. Prelude Here a word that Jesus spake 1900 years ago, where the crimson lilies blow round the blue Tiberian lake, where the bread of life he break through the fields of harvest walking, with his lowly comrades talking, of the secret thoughts that feed weary souls in time of need. Art thou hungry? Come and take. Hear the word that Jesus spake. Dis the sacrament of labour, red in wine, divinely blessed. Friendships food in sweet refreshment, strength and courage, joy and rest. But this word the master said long ago and far away, silent and forgotten lay buried with the silent dead, where the sands of Egypt spread sea like tiny billows heaping over ancient cities sleeping, while the River Nile between rolls its summer flood of green, rolls its autumn flood of red. There the word the master said, written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire and torn, hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection more. Now at last the buried word by the delving spade is found, sleeping in the quiet ground. Now the call of life is heard. Rise again, and like a bird fly abroad on wings of gladness, through the darkness and the sadness of the toiling age, and sing sweeter than the voice of spring. Till the hearts of men are stirred by the music of the word, gospel for the heavy laden, answer to the laborer's cry. Raise the stone, and thou shall find me, cleave the wood, and there am I. Two. Legend. Brother men who look for Jesus long to see him close and clear hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the master near. Born in Egypt, beneath the shadow of the crumbling gods of night, he forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart toward the light. Seeking Christ in vain, he waited for the vision of the Lord. Vanely pondered many volumes where the creeds of men were stored. Vanely shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and day. Vanely haunted shrines in churches where the Christians came to pray. One by one he dropped the duties of the common life of care, broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit, waste, and bear. Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelling place, and reward the loss of all things with the vision of his face. Still the blessed vision tarried, still the night was unrevealed, still the master dim and distant kept his countenance concealed. Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruitless quest. Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought no rest. Lingering in the darkened temple ere the lamp of faith went out, Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of doubt. Hear me, O my Lord and Master, from the altar's teppy cry, let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied. Only once I long to see thee in the fullness of thy grace, break the clouds that now unfold thee with the sunrise of thy face. All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for thee. Every hope have I forsaken. Save this one, my Lord, to see. Loose the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands my heart. Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see thee as thou art. From thy distant throne and glory flash upon my inward sight, fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendor of thy light. All thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies I disown, separated from my brothers, I would see thy face alone. I have watched, and I have waited, as one waited for the morn. Still the veil is never lifted, still thou leaveest me forlorn. Now I seek thee in the desert where the holy hermits dwell. There beside the saint's serapium I will find a lonely cell. There at last thou wilt be gracious. There thy presence long concealed in the solitude and silence to my heart shall be revealed. Thou wilt come at dawn or twilight or the rolling waves of sand. I shall see thee close beside me. I shall touch thy pierced hand. Lo, thy pilgrim kneels before thee. Bless my journey with a word. Tell me now that if I follow I shall find thee, O my Lord. Felix, listen. Through the darkness like a murmur of the wind came a gentle sound of stillness. Never faint, and thou shalt find. Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy land of heat. Egypt's blazing sun above him blistering sand beneath his feet. Patiently he plotted onward, and from the pathway never erred, till he reached the river headland called the mountain of the bird. There the tribes of air assemble once a year their noisy flock, then departing leave a sentinel perched upon the highest rock. Far away and joyful pinions over land and sea they fly, but the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky. There the Aramite Serapion in a cave had made his bed. There the faithful bands of pilgrim sought his blessing, brought him bread. Month by month in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft, dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying. Once a year the cave he left. On that day a happy pilgrim chosen out of all the band went a special sign of favor from the holy hermit's hand. Underneath the narrow window at the doorway closely sealed, while the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix kneeled. And of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be priced, grant me thy most precious girdin. Tell me how to find the Christ. Breathless Felix bent and listened, but no answering voice he heard. Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the mountain of the bird. Then he said, the saint is silent. He would teach my soul to wait. I will tarry here in patience like a beggar at his gate. Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude abode, and a shallow tomb deserted close beside the pilgrim road. So the faithful pilgrim saw him waiting there without complaint. Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed the saint. Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain with gold, while the river Nile beneath him silvery coiling seaward rolled. Night by night he saw the planets range their glittering court on high, saw the moon with queenly motion mouth her throne and rule the sky. Morn advanced and midnight fled, and visionary pomp attired. Never mourn and never midnight brought the vision long desired. Now at last the day is doneing where Serapion makes his gift. Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes to lift. Now the cavern door encloses. Now the saint above him stands, blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his hands. "'Tis the girdon of thy waiting. Look, thou happy pilgrim, look! Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book. Read, perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the words may lie. Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me. Cleave the wood, and there am I. Can it be the mighty master's bakes that simple words is these? Can it be that men must seek him at their toil, mid rocks and trees? Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the mountain of the bird, Felix mournfully descended, questioning the master's word. Not for him a sacred dwelling far above the haunts of men, he must turn his footsteps backward to the common life again. From a quarry near the river, hollowed out amid the hills, rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, clinking drills. Dust and noise and hot confusion made a bevel of the spot. There among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found his lot. Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote the iron in the rock. Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing, blow-un-blow-un-shock-un-shock. Now he drove the willow-wetches, wet them, till they swelled and split with their silent strength, the fragments sent it, thundering down the pit. Now the groaning tackle raised it, now the rollers made it slide, harnessed men like beasts of burden drew it to the riverside. Now the palm trees must be riven, massive timbers hewn and dressed, rafts to bear the stones and safety on the rushing river's breast. Axe and auger, saw and chisel, rocked the will of man and wood. Mid the many-handed labour, Felix toiled and found it good. Every day the blood ran fleeter through his limbs, and round his heart every night he slept the sweeter, knowing he had done his part. Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him. But instead came a sense of daily comfort in the toil for daily bread. Far away, across the river, gleamed the white walls of the town, wither all the stones and timbers day by day were floated down. There the workman saw his labour taking form and bearing fruit, like a tree with splendid branches rising from a humble root. Looking at the distant city, temples, houses, don'ts, and towers, Felix cried in exultation, all that mighty work is ours. Every toiler in the quarry, every builder on the shore, every chopper in the palm grove, every raspman at the oar, hewn wood and dry in water, splitting stones and cleaving sod, all the dusty ranks of labour in the regiment of God. Marched together toward his triumph, due to the great workman's work, marched together toward his triumph, due the task his hands prepared, on his toil is holy surface, faithful work is praise and prayer. While he bore the heat and burden, Felix felt the sense of rest, flowing softly like a fountain deep within his weary breast. Felt the brotherhood of labour rising round him like a tide, overflow his heart and join him to the workers at his side. Off he cheered them with his singing at the breaking of the light, told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them words of prayer at night, once he bent over a comrade fainting in the midday heat, sheltered him with woven palm leaves, gave him water cool and sweet. Then it seemed for one swift moment secret radiance filled the place, underneath the green palm branches flashed a look of Jesus' face. Once again a raspman slipping, plunged beneath the stream and sank, swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, due him toward the bank, battling with the cruel river using all his strength to save. Did he dream, or was there one beside him walking on the way? Now, at last the work was ended, grove deserted, quarry stilled, Felix journeyed to the city that his hands had helped to build. In the darkness of the temple, the closing hour of day, as of old he sought the altar, as of old he knelt the prayer. Hear me, O thou hidden master, thou hast sent a word to me, it is written thy commandment. I have kept it faithful, thou hast bid me leave the visions of the solitary life. Bear my part in human labour, take my share in human strife. I have done thy bidding, master, raised the rock and felled the tree, swung the axe and plied the hammer, working every day for thee. Once it seemed I saw thy presence through the bending palm leaves gleam. Once upon the flowing water, nay, I know not, it was a dream. This I know, thou hast been near me, more than this I dare not ask. Though I see thee not, I love thee. Let me do thy humblest task. Through the dimness of the temple slowly dawned a mystic light. There the master stood in glory, manifest to mortal sight. Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow that bore the print of care, hands of power divinely tender, brow of light divinely fair. Harken, good and faithful servant, true disciple, loyal friend, thou hast followed me and found me. I will keep thee to the end. Well, I know thy toil and trouble, often weary, fainting, worn. I have lived the life of labour, heavy burdens I have borne. Never in a prince's palace have I slept on golden bed. Never in a hermit's cavern have I eaten unearned bread. Born within a lowly stable where the cattle round me stood, trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have toiled and found it good. They who tread the path of labour follow where my feet have trod. They who work without complaining do the holy will of God. Where the many toil together, there am I among my own. Where the tired workmen sleepeth, there am I with him alone. I, the peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the daily strife. I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the sacrament of life. Every task, however simple, sets the soul that does it free. Every deed of love and mercy, done to man, is done to me. Thou hast learned the open secret. Thou hast come to me for rest. With thy burden and thy labour, thou art Felix doubly blessed. Nevermore thou needest seek me. I am with thee everywhere. Raise the stone, and thou shall find me. Cleave the wood, and I am there. Three. Ander. The legend of Felix is ended. The toiling of Felix is done. The master has paid him his wages. The goal of his journey is won. He rests, but he never is idle. A thousand years pass like a day. In the glad surprise of that paradise where workers weed earth and play. Yet often the king of that country comes out from his tireless toast, and walks in this world of the weary as if he loved it the most. For here in the dusty confusion with eyes that are heavy and dim, he meets again the laboring men who are looking and longing for him. He cancels the curse of Eden and brings them a blessing instead. Blessed are they that labour for Jesus partakes of their bread. He puts his hand to their burdens. He enters their homes at night. Who does his best shall have as guest the master of life and light. And courage will come with his presence, and patience return at his touch. And manifold sins be forgiven to those who love him much. The cries of envy and anger will change to the songs of cheer. The toiling age will forget its rage when the prince of peace draws near. This is the gospel of labor. Ring it ye bells of the Kirk. The Lord of love came down from above to live with men who work. This is the rose that he planted here in the throne cursed soil. Heaven is blessed with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil. 1898 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Plead My Faith by Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, read for LibriVox.org by Cleve Callison, Wilmington, North Carolina, March 30, 2019. To Plead My Faith, where faith at no reward, to move remorse, where favour is not borne, to heap complaints, where she doth not regard, where fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn. I love at her whom all the world admired. I was refused of her that can love none, and my vain hopes, which far too high aspired, is dead and buried and forever gone. Forget my name, since you have scorned my love, and women like do not too late lament, since for your sake I do all mischief prove. I none accuse, nor nothing do repent. I was as fine as ever she was fair. Yet loved I not more than I now despair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To the Marquilla Fayette by John G. C. Brainard, read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. To the Marquilla Fayette. Will search the earth, and search the sea, to cull a gallant wreath for thee, and every field for freedom fought, and every mountain-height where aught of liberty can yet be found, shall be our blooming harvest-ground. Laurels in garlands hang upon Thermopylae and Marathon. On banock-burn the thistle grows, on runny mead the wild rose blows, and on the banks of boy in its leaves, green errands shamrock wildly weaves. In France, in sunny France will get the Fleur-de-lis and Mignonette, from every consecrated spot where lies the martyred Huguenot, and cull even here from many a field and many a rocky height, based at our veils and mountains yield, where men have met to fight for law and liberty and life, and died in freedom's holy strife. Below Atlantic seas, below the waves of Erie and Champlain, the sea-grass and the corals grow in rostral trophies round the slain, and we can add to form thy crown some branches worthy thy renown. Long made a chaplet flourish bright, and borrow from the heavens its light, as with a cloud that circles round a star when other stars have set, with glory shall thy brow be bound, with glory shall thy head be crowned, with glory star-like singed yet, for earth and air and sky and sea shall yield a glorious wreath to thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Vashti Song by Arthur Quillar Couch, read for LibriVox.org by Sonia. Vashti Song over the rim of the moor, and under the starry sky, two men came to my door, and rested them thereby. Beneath the bow and the star, in a whispering foreign tongue, they talked of a land afar, and the merry days so young. Beneath the dawn and the bow, I heard them rise and go, and my heart it is aching now, for the moor it will never know. Why did they two depart before I could understand? Where lies that land, O my heart? O my heart, where lies that land? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Waking from drunkenness on a spring day by Leigh By read for LibriVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America. Waking from drunkenness on a spring day life in the world is but a big dream. I will not spoil it by any labor or care. So saying I was drunk all the day. Lying helpless at the porch in front of my door, when I woke up I blinked at the garden lawn. It lonely bird was singing amid the flowers. I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine? The spring wind was telling the mango bird. Moved by its song I soon began to sigh, and as wine was there I filled my own cup. Wildly singing I waited for the moon to rise. When my song was over all my senses had gone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. We are Seven by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Melissa Jane, Memphis, Tennessee. A simple child that lightly draws its breath and feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl. She was eight years old, she said. Her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air, and she was wildly clad. Her eyes were fair and very fair. Her beauty made me glad. Sisters and brothers little maid, how many may you be? How many? Seven in all, she said, and wondering looked at me. And where are they? I pray you tell, she answered. Seven are we, and two of us at Conway Dwell, and two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother, and in the churchyard cottage I dwell near them with my mother. You say that two at Conway Dwell, and two are gone to sea. Yet you are seven, I pray you tell. Sweet maid, how this may be. Then did the little maid reply. Seven boys and girls are we, two of us in the churchyard lie beneath the churchyard tree. You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive. If two are in the churchyard laid, then you are only five. Their graves are green. They may be seen, the little maid replied. Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. My stockings there often knit, my kerchief there I hem, and there upon the ground I sit, and sing a song to them. And often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, I take my little poor and journeyed my supper there. The first that died was sister Jane. In bed she moaning lay, till God released her of her pain, and then she went away. So in the churchyard she was laid, and when the grass was dry, together round her grave we played, my brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, and I could run and slide, my brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side. How many are you then, said I, if they two are in heaven. Quick was the little maid's reply, oh master, we are seven. But they are dead, those two are dead, their spirits are in heaven. Twas throwing words away, for still the little maid would have her will, and say, Nay, we are seven. Where the Picnic Was by Thomas Hardy Read for LibriVox.org by Quaker Woodworker Where we made the fire, in the summer time, of branch and briar on the hill to the sea. I slowly climb through Wintermire, and scan and trace the forsaken place, quite readily. Now a cold wind blows, and the grass is gray, but the spot still shows as a burnt circle. Eye and stick ends charred, still strew the sword whereon I stand. Last relic of the band, who came that day, yes, I am here just as last year, and the sea breathes brine from its strange straight line up hither, the same as when we four came. But two have wandered far from this grassy rise into urban roar, where no picnics are, and one has shut her eyes forever more. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Without Ceremony by Thomas Hardy Read for LibriVox.org by Quaker Woodworker Without Ceremony It was your way, my dear, to be gone without a word when callers, friends, or kin had left, and I hastened in to rejoin you, as I inferred. And when you, to mine, to career off anywhere, say to town, you were all on a sudden gone before I had thought thereon, or noticed your trunks were down. So, now that you disappear forever in that swift style, your meaning seems to me just as it used to be. Good-bye is not worthwhile. End of Poem This recording