 A Description of the Morning by Jonathan Swift Red for LibriVox.org by E. Pline Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach appearing showed the ruddy-mourne's approach. Now Betty from her master's bed had flown and softly stole to decompose her own. The slip-shod apprentice from his master's door had paired the dirt and sprinkled round the floor. Now Maul had whirled her mop with dexterous airs, prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace the kennel-edge where wheels had worn the place. The small coal-man was heard with cadence deep till drowned in triller tones of chimney-sweep. Dunns at his lordship's gate began to meet, and brick-dust Maul had screamed through half a street. The turnkey now his flock returning seas duly let out a night to steal for fees. The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands, and schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eaton College by Thomas Gray Read for LibriVox.org by Jeanette Virgusson Ye distant spires ye antique towers that crown the watery glade, where grateful science still adores her Henry's holy shade, and ye that from the stately brow of Windsor's Heights, the expanse below, of grove of lawn of mead-survey, whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, wanders the hoary tames along his silver-winding way, a happy hills, a pleasing shade, a fields beloved in vain, where once my careless childhood strayed, a stranger yet to pain, I feel the gales up from ye blow, a momentary bliss-bestow, as waving fresh their gladsome wing, my weary soul they seem to soothe, and redolent of joy and youth to breathe a second spring. Say father, tames, for thou hast seen, full many a sprightly race, desporting on thy margin green, the paths of pleasure trace, who foremost now delight to cleave, with pliant arm thy glassy wave, the captive linnet which enthrall, what idle progeny succeed to chase the rolling-circle's speed or urge the flying ball, while some on earnest business-bent their murmuring labor's ply, against graver-hours that bring constraint to sweeten liberty, some bold adventurers disdain the limits of their little reign, and unknown regions dare to scry, still as they run they look behind, they hear a voice in every wind, and snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, less pleasing when possessed. The tear forgot as soon as shed, the sunshine of the breast. There's buxom health of rosy hue, wild wit invention ever new, and lively cheer of vigour-born, the thoughtless day, the easy night, the spirit's pure, the slumber's light, that fly the approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play, no sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today, yet see how all around them wait, the ministers of human fate, and black misfortunes baleful train. I'll show them where an ambush stand to seize their prey the murderous bend, I'll tell them they are men. These shall a fury passions tear, the vultures of the mind, disdainful anger pallid fear, and shame that skulks behind, or pining love shall waste their youth, or jealousy with wrinkling tooth, that inly gnaws the secret heart, and envy won and faded care, grim visage to comfort list despair, and sorrows piercing dart. Ambition this shell tempt to rise, then whirl the wretch from high, to better scorn a sacrifice, and grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try, and hard and kindness altered eye, that mocks the tear it forced to flow, and keen remorse with blood defiled, and moody madness laughing wild amid severest woe. Low in the veil of years beneath a grizzly trooper scene, the painful family of death, more hideous than their queen. This racks the joints, this fires of veins that every laboring sinew strains, those in the deeper vitals rage, low poverty to fill the bend, that numbs the soul with icy hand and slow consuming age. To each his sufferings, all are men, condemned alike to groan, the tender for another's pain, the unfeeling for his own, yet ah, why should they know their fate, since sorrow never comes too late, and happiness too swiftly flies, thought would destroy their paradise, no more, where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise. This recording is in the public domain. Dust by Dorothy Anderson, read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. What is dust? Ashes of love, charred letters, faded heliotrope, rose petals fallen from a dead hand, spiders, bats, deserted houses, crumbling citadels, and wheel-ruts where vanished armies have passed. Is that all? Oh, dust is sun and laughter, circuses, parasols, preening pigeons, lovers picnicking by the roadside, and ragamuffins tumbling in the warm lanes. Dust is rainbow webs caught in sweet, hot smelling hedges, and it is dust that keeps my eyes from being blinded by the stars. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Here Lies An Honest Man, by Henry David Thoreau, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Here Lies An Honest Man, Rear Admiral Van, faith then ye have, two in one grave, for in his favour, here too lies the engraver. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Hymn of Clienties, by Clienties The Stoic. Read for LibriVox.org by Leon Meyer. Chiefest Glory of Deathless Gods, Almighty Forever, Sovereign of Nature that Rulest by Law. What name shall we give thee? Blessed be thou, for on thee should call all things that are mortal. For that we are thine offspring, nay all that in myriad motion lives for its day, on the earth bears one impress, thy likeness upon it. Wherefore my song is of thee, and I hymn thy power for ever. Lo, the vast orb of the worlds, round the earth ever more as it rolleth, feels thee its ruler and guide, and owns thy lordship rejoicing. I for thy conquering hands have a servant of living fire, sharp as the bolt, where it falls, nature shrinks at the shock and doth shudder. Thus thou directest the word universal that pulses through all things, mingling its life with lights that are great, and lights that are lesser. Then as besiemeth its birth, high king through ages unending. Not is done that is done without thee in the earth or the waters, or in the heights of heaven save the deed of the fool in the sinner. Thou canst make rough things smooth, at thy voice low, jarring disorder, moveth to music, and love is born where hatred abounded. This has thou fitted alike things good and things evil together, that over all might reign one reason, supreme and eternal. Though there unto the hearts of the wicked be hardened and headless, woe unto them, for while ever their hands are grasping at good things, blind are their eyes, yea, stopped are their ears, to God's law universal. Going through wise obedience to live the life that is noble, this they mark not, but heedless of right turn each to his own way. Here a heart fired with ambition, in strife and straining unhallowed, there, thrusting on her aside, fast set upon getting and gaining. Others again, given over to lusts, and disolute softness, working never God's law, but that which wareth upon it. Nay, but, O giver of all things good, whose home is the dark cloud, thou that wieldest heaven's bolt, save men from their ignorance grievous, scatter its night from their souls, and grant them to come to that wisdom, wherewithal, sistered with justice, thou rulest and governest all things. That we, honored by thee, may require thee with worship and honor, evermore praising thy works as as meat for men that shall perish, seeing that none, be he mortal or God, hath privilege nobler than without stint, without stay, to extol thy law universal. In the Shadows, by E. Pauline Johnson, read for LibriVox.org by Betsy Bush, in Marquette, Michigan, May 2007. In the Shadows, I am sailing to the leeward, where the current runs to seaward, soft and slow, where the sleeping river grasses brush my paddle as it passes to and fro. On the shore the heat is shaking, all the golden sands awaking in the cove, and the quaint sandpiper, winging or the shallows, ceases singing when I move. On the water's idle pillow sleeps the overhanging willow, green and cool, where the rushes lift their burnished oval heads from out the tarnished emerald pool, where the very silence slumbers, water lilies grow in numbers, pure and pale. All the morning they have rested, amber-crowned and pearly crested, fair and frail. Here impossible romances, indefinable sweet fancies cluster round, but they do not mar the sweetness of this still September fleetness with the sound. I can scarce discern the meeting of the shore and the stream retreating, so remote, for the laggard river dozing, only wakes from its reposing where I float. Where the river mists are rising, all the foliage baptizing with their spray, there the sun gleams far and faintly, with a shadow soft and saintly in its ray, and the perfume of some burning far-off brushwood ever turning to exhale, all its smoky fragrance dying in the arms of evening lying where I sail. My canoe is growing lazy in the atmosphere so hazy, while I dream, half in slumber I am guiding, eastward indistinctly gliding down the stream. Inward Morning by Henry David Thoreau In its fashions hourly change it all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad, and can no difference find, till some new ray of peace uncalled elumes my inmost mind. What is it guilds the trees and clouds, and paints the heavens so gray, but yonder fast-abiding light, with its unchanging ray? Low, when the sun streams through the wood upon a winter's morn, where air his silent beams intrude, the murky night is gone. How could the patient pine have known the morning breeze would come, or humble flowers anticipate the insect's noonday hum? Till the new light, with the morning cheer, from far streamed through the aisles, and nimbly told the farthest tree for many stretching miles. I've heard within my inner soul such cheerful morning news, and the horizon of my mind have seen such orient hues as in the twilight of the dawn, when the first birds awake are heard within some silent wood where they, the small twigs, break. Or in the eastern skies are seen before the sun appears the harbingers of summer heats, which, from afar, he bears. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind, by Henry David Thorow. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind, new lands, new people, and new thoughts to find. Many fair reaches and headlands appeared, and many dangers were there to be feared. But when I remembered where I had been, and the fair landscapes that I had seen, thou seamest the only permanent shore, the cape never rounded, nor wandered o'er. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Low Anchored Cloud. By Henry David Thorow. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Low Anchored Cloud. Newfoundland Air. Fountainhead and source of rivers. Dewcloth, dream drapery, and napkins spread by phase. Drifting meadow of the air, where bloom the daisied banks and violets, and in whose fanny labyrinth the bittern booms and heron wades, spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, bear only perfumes and the scent of healing herbs to just men's fields. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Man's Little Acts Are Grand. By Henry David Thorow. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Man's Little Acts Are Grand. Beheld from land to land. There as they lie in time within their native climb. Ships, with the noon tide way, and glide before its ray to some retired bay. Their haunt wence under tropic sun again they run, bearing gum Senegal and tragicant. For this was ocean-ment, for this the sun was sent, and the moon was lent, and winds in distant caverns pent. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The River Merchant's Wife, a letter, by Ezra Pound. Recorded for LibriVox.org by Paul Z. Hong Kong. While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead, I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse. You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chow Khan, two small people without dislike or suspicion. At fourteen, I married my Lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall, called to a thousand times. I never looked back. At fifteen, I stopped scowling. I desired my dust to be mingled with yours forever and forever and forever. Why should I climb the lookout? At sixteen, you departed. You went into far Ku To Yan by the river of swirling eddies. And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead. You dragged your feet when you went out. By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses. Too deep to clear them away. The leaves fall early this autumn in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August, over the grass in the West Garden. They hurt me. I grow older. If you're coming down through the narrows of the river, please let me know beforehand. And I will come out to meet you, as far as Chou Fu Sa, from the Chinese of Leipol. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Modern Love, 30 by George Meredith readforlibrivox.org What are we first? First, animals. And next, intelligences at a leap, on whom pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, and all that droid on the tomb for text. Into which state comes love, the crowning sun, beneath whose light the shadow loses form. We are the lords of life, and life is warm. Intelligence and instinct now are one. But nature says, My children, most they seem, when they least know me, therefore I decree that they shall suffer. Swift doth young love flee, and we stand, wakened, shivering from our dream. Then, if we study nature, we are wise. Thus do the few who live but with the day, the scientific animals are they. Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Moon by Henry David Thoreau Read for Librivox.org by Alan Davis Drake Time wears her knot. She doth his chariot guide. Mortality below her orb is placed. Raleigh The full-orbed moon with unchanged ray mounts up the eastern sky, not doomed to these short nights for a, but shining steadily. She does not wane, but my fortune, which her rays do not bless, my wayward path declineeth soon. But she shines, not the less. And if she faintly glimmers here, and pale is her light, yet always in her proper sphere She's mistress of the night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Resemblance by Winifred Wells Read for Librivox.org by Leanne Howlett I have on mine no likeness to your fairy queen-like face, no sign in all my body of any of your grace. I might have been a changeling as well as been a son, or your daughter, and look like anyone. But where your two breasts parted a small mark darkened you, and over my heart's beating I have the same scar, too. A little seal and golden, whereby it shall be known that you have shaped and borne me, and stamped me as your own. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Riddle by Hannah Moore I'm a strange contradiction. I'm new, and I'm old. I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold, though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found, though blind I enlighten, though loose I am bound. I'm always in black, and I'm always in white, I'm grave, and I'm gay, I am heavy and light. In numbers I vary, I'm eight, and I'm four, and though I am twelve, I can't reach half a score. In form, too, I differ. I'm thick, and I'm thin. I've no flesh, and no bone, yet I'm covered with skin. I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute. I sing without voice, without speaking, confute. I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch. Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much. I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages, and though Monika Live has so many pages. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Song by Thomas Babington Macaulay Read for LibriVox.org by Christian Hughes O stay, Madonna, stay. It is not the dawn of day that marks the skies with yonder opal streak. The stars in silence shine. Then press thy lips to mine and rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek. O sleep, Madonna, sleep. Leave me to watch and weep or the sad memory of departed joys, or hope's extinguished beam, or fancy's vanished dream, or all that nature gives and man destroys. Awake, Madonna, wake. Even now the purple lake is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light. A glow is on the hill, and every trickling reel in golden threads leaps down from yonder height. O fly, Madonna, fly. Lest day and envy spy what only love and night may safely know. Fly and tread softly, dear. Lest those who hate us hear the sounds of thy light footsteps as they go. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill. I, peeringly, view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom. I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair. I note where the pistol has fallen. The blab of the pave, tires of carts, slough of boot-souls, talk of the promenaders. The heavy omnibus, the driver with its interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor. The slow sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs. The hurrahs for popular favourites, the flap of the curtained litter, a sick man inside, born to the hospital, the meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall, the excited crowd, the policeman, with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd, the impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes. What groans of overfed or half-starved, who fall sun-struck or in fits, what exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes. What living and buried speech is always vibrating here. What howls restrained by decorum. Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips. I mind them, or the show, or resonance of them. I come, and I depart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more about LibriVox or to volunteer for this special project, please visit LibriVox.org. That's L-I-B-R-I-V-O-X L-I-B-R-I-V-O-X dot O-R-G. You are listening to Terence This Is Stupid Stuff by A.E. Hausman. Read by Matthew Bodey. Terence, this is stupid stuff. You eat your vitals fast enough. There can't be much amiss, tis clear, to see the rate you drink your beer, but oh, good lord, the verse you make, it gives a chap the bellyache, the cow, the old cow, she is dead. It sleeps well, the horned head. We poor lads, tis our turn now, to hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship, tis to rhyme, your friends to death before their time, moping melancholy mad. Come pipe a tune to dance to, lad. Why, if tis dancing you would be, there's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop yards meant, or why was Burton built on Trent? Many a peer of England brews, livelier liquor than the muse, and malt does more than Milton can to justify God's way to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink, for fellows whom it hurts to think. Look into the pewter pot, to see the world as the world's not, and faith, tis pleasant till, tis past, the mischief is that, twill not last. Oh, I have been to Ludlow fair and left my necktie, God knows where, and carried half way home or near, pints and quartz of Ludlow beer, then the world seemed none so bad, and I myself, a sterling lad, and down in lovely muck I've lain, happy till I woke again, then I saw the morning sky. I ho the jail was all a lie, the world it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, and nothing now remain to do, but begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world is still much good, but much less good than ill, and while the sun and moon endure, luxe a chance but trouble sure, I'd find it as a wise man would, and train for ill and not for good, tis true the stuff I bring for sale is not so brisk, a brew as ale, out of a stem that's scored the hen I wrung it in a weary land, but take it if the smack is sour, the better for the embittered hour, it should do good to heart and head when your soul is in my soul's stead, and I will friend you, if I may, in the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the east, there when kings will sit to feast, they get their fill before they think, with poisoned meat and poisoned drink, he gathered all the springs to berth from the many-venomed earth, first a little, then some more, he sampled all her killing-store, an easy, smiling, seasoned sound, say the king when else went round, they put arsenic in his meat and stared aghast to watch him eat, they poured strict nine in his cup and shook to see him drink it up, they shook they stared as whites their shirt, them it was their poison hurt. I tell the tale that I heard told, Mithridades, he died old. End of poem. You have been listening to a LibriVox recording of Terence This Is Stupid Stuff by A. E. Hausman, read by Matthew Bodie. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Once in the garden rained flowers. Children ran there joyously. They gathered the flowers each to himself. Now there were some who gathered great heaps, having opportunity and skill, until, behold, only chance blossoms remained for the feeble. Then a little spindling tutor came in importantly to the father crying, pray, come hither, see this unjust thing in your garden. But when the father had surveyed, he admonished the tutor, not so small sage, this thing is just. For look you, are not they who possess the flowers stronger, bolder, shrewder than they who have none? Why should the strong, the beautiful strong? Why should they not have the flowers? Upon reflection the tutor bowed to the ground. My lord, he said, the stars are displaced by this towering wisdom. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The western wind came lumbering in by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. The western wind came lumbering in, bearing a faint Pacific din. Our evening mail, swift at the call of its postmaster general, laden with news from California, what air transpired hath since morn, how wags the world by briar and break, from hence to Athabasca Lake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.