 Song of Myself by Walt Whitman Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake The pure contralto sings in the organ loft. The carpenter dresses his plank. The tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp. The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner. The pilot seizes the kingpin. He heaves down with a strong arm. The mate stands braced in the whaleboat. Lance and harpoon are ready. The duck shooter walks by, silent and cautious stretches. The deacons are ordained with crossed hands at the altar. The spinning girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel. The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a Friday loaf and looks at the oats and rye. The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirmed case. He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bedroom. The juror-printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case. He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blur with the manuscript. The malformed limbs are tied to the surgeon's table. What is removed drops horribly in a pail. The quadruined girl is sold at the auction stand. The drunkard nods by the bar room stove. The machinist rolls up his sleeves. The policeman travels his beat. The gatekeeper marks who pass. The young fellow drives the express wagon. I love him, though I do not know him. The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race. The western turkey shooting draws old and young. Some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs. Start from the crowds steps the marksman. Takes his position, levels his peace. The groups of new-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee. As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar field, the overseer views them from his saddle. The bugle calls in the ballroom. The gentlemen run for their partners. The dancers bow to each other. The youth lies awake in the cedar-roofed garret and harks to the musical rain. The wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the huron. The squaw wrapped in her yellow hemmed cloth is offering moccasins and bead bags for sale. The connoisseur appears along the exhibition gallery, with half-shut eyes bent sideways. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers. The young sister holds out the skein, while the elder sister winds it off in a ball and stops now and then for the nuts. The one-year wife is recovering and happy, having a week ago borne her first child. The clean-haired Yankee girl works with her sewing machine or in the factory or mill. The paving man leans on his two-handed rammer. The reporter's lead flies swiftly over the notebook. The sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold. The canal-boy trots on the tow-path. The bookkeeper counts at his desk. The shoemaker waxes his thread. The conductor beats time for the band, and all the performers follow him. The child is baptized. The convert is making his first profession. The regatta is spread on the bay. The race has begun. How the white sails sparkle. The drover watches his drove, sings out to them that would stray. The peddler sweats with his pack on his back. The purchaser higgling about the odd scent. The bride unrumples her white dress. The minute hand of the clock moves slowly. The opium eater reclines with rigid head and just opened lips. The prostitute dragles her shawl. Her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck. The crowd laugh at her blackered oaths. The men jeer and wink to each other. Miserable, I do not laugh at your oaths, nor jeer you. The president holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great secretaries. On the piazza walk three matrons, stately and friendly, with twined arms. The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold. The Missourian crosses the plains, toting his wares and his cattle. As the fare collector goes through the train, he gives notices by the jingling of loose change. The floormen are laying the floor. The tinners are tinning the roof. The masons are calling for mortar. In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers. Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable crowd is gathered. It is the fourth of seventh month. But salutes of cannon and small arms. Seasons pursuing each other, the plower plows, the mower mows, and the winter grain falls in the ground. Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface. The stumps stand thick round the clearing. The squatter strikes deep with his axe. Oak boatmen make fast towards dusk, near the cottonwood or the pecan trees. Coon seekers go through the regions of the Red River, or through those drained by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahoochee or the Altamahoa. Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them. In walls of adobe, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers, after their day's sport. The city sleeps, and the country sleeps. The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time. The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife. And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them. And such as it is to be of these, more or less I am. And of these one and all, I weave the song of myself. End of POM. This recording is in the public domain. On the Morning of Christ Nativity by John Milton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leon Meyer. On the Morning of Christ Nativity. This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, of wedded maid and virgin mother, born. Our great redemption from above did bring, for so the holy sages once did sing, that he our deadly forfeit should release, and with his father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, and that far-beaming blaze of majesty, wherewith he want at Heaven's high council-table to sit the midst of trinal unity. He laid aside, and here with us to be, forsook the courts of everlasting day, and chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred vein afford a present to the infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, to welcome him to this his new abode? Now while the Heaven, by the Son's team untrod, hath took no print to the approaching light, and all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See how, from far upon the eastern road, the star-led wizards haste with odour sweet, O run, prevent them with thy humble oad, and lay it lowly at his blessed feet. Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, and join thy voice unto the angel choir, from out his secret altar, touched with hallowed fire? The hymn. It was the winter wild, while the Heaven-born child, all meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies, Nature, in awe to him, had doff'd her gaudy trim, with her great master so to sympathize, it was no season then for her to wanton with the sun her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair she woos the gentle air, to hide her guilty front with innocent snow, and on her naked shame pollute with sinful blame, the saintly veil of maiden white to throw confounded that her maker's eyes should look so nearer upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, sent down the meek-eyed peace. She, crowned with olive-green, came softly sliding down the turning sphere, his ready harbinger, with turtle-wing the amorous clouds dividing, and, waving wide her myrtle wand, she strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war or bat-tail sound was heard the world around. The idle spear and shield were high up hung. The hook-chariot stood, unstained with hostile blood. The trumpets spake not to the armed throng, and King sat still with awful eye, as if they surely knew their sovereign lord was by. But peaceful was the night wherein the prince of light, his reign of peace upon the earth began. The winds, with wonder wist, smoothly the waters kissed, whispering new joys to the mild ocean, who now hath quite forgot to rave, while birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars with deep amaze stand fixed in steadfast gaze, bending one way their precious influence, and will not take their flight, for all the morning light, or lucifer that often warn them thence. But in their glimmering orbs did glow, until their lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom had given day her room, the sun himself withheld his wanted speed, and hid his head of shame, as his interior flame, the new enlightened world no more should need. He saw a greater sun appear, than his bright throne or burning axeltree could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, or ere the point of dawn, sat simply chatting in a rustic row. Little-little thought they, then that the mighty pan was kindly to come with them below. Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet their hearts and ears did greet, as never was by mortal finger struck, divinely warbled voice, answering the stringid noise, as all their souls in blissful rapture took. The air, such pleasure loth to lose, with thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature that heard such sound beneath the hull around of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, now was almost one to think her part was done, and that her reign had here its last fulfilling. She knew such harmony alone could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight a globe of circular light, that with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed, the helmet cherubim and sordid seraphim are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, harping in loud and solemn choir with unexpressive notes to heaven's newborn air. Such music, as Tiz said, before was never made, but when of old the sons of morning sung, while the Creator great his constellation said, and the well-balanced world on Hinge's hung, and cast the dark foundations deep, and bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Bring out ye crystal spheres, once bless our human ears, if ye have power to touch our senses so, and let your silver chime move in melodious time, and let the base of heaven's deep organ blow, and with your ninefold harmony make up full consort of the angelic symphony. For if such holy song and rap are fancy long, time will run back and fetch the age of gold, and speckled vanity will sicken soon and die, and leprous sin will melt from earthly mold, and hell itself will pass away, and leave her dolerous mansions of the peering day. Yes, truth and justice then, will down return to men, the enameled auras of the rainbow wearing, and mercy set between, throned in celestial sheen, with radiant feet the tissueed clouds down steering, and heaven, as at some festival, will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. But wisest fate says no, this must not yet be so, the babe lies yet in smiling infancy, yet on the bitter cross must redeem our loss, so both himself and us to glorify, yet first to those chained in sleep the wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. With such a horrid clang as on Mount Sinai rang, while the red fire and smoldering clouds outbreak, the aged earth, aghast with terror of that blast, shall from the surface to the center shake, when at the world's last session the dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss, full and perfect is, but now begins, for from this happy day the old dragon underground in strater limits bound, not half so far cast his usurp sway, but wroth to see his kingdom fail, swinges the scaly horror of his folded tale. The oracles are dumb, no voice or hideous hum runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine can no more divine will hollow shriek the step of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains oar, and the resounding shore, a voice of weeping herd and loud lament, edged with poplar pale from haunted spring and dale, the parting genius is with sighing scent, with flower and woven tresses torn, the nymphs and twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth and on the holy hearth the lars and limerace moan with midnight plain, in urns and alters round a drear and dying sound affrights the flamens at their service quaint, and the chill marble seems to sweat, while each peculiar power foregoes his wanted seat. Peor and Balaam forsake their temple's dim, with that twice-battered god of Palestine and mooned ashtaroth, heaven's queen and mother both, now sits not girth with tapers holy shine. The Libic Hammond shrinks his horn. In vain the Turrian maids their wounded Tammuz mourn. And so in Malak, fled, hath left in shadows dread, his burning idol all of blackest hue, in vain with cymbals ring they cull the grizzly king, in dismal dance about the furnace blue, the brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Oris, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen, in minfian grove or green, trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud. Nor can he be at rest, within his sacred chest. Not but profoundest hell can be his shroud. In vain with timbreled anthems dark, the sable-stolled sorcerers bear his worship dark. He feels from Judah's land, the dreaded infant's hand, the rays of Bethlehem, blind his dusky eye. Nor all the gods beside, longer dare abide, not typhon huge, ending in snaky twine, our babe, to show his got-head true, can, in his swaddling bands, control the damned crew. So when the sun in bed, curtained with cloudy red, pillows his shame upon an orient wave, the flocking shadows pale, troop to the infernal jail, each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, and the yellow-skirted face, fly after the night's deeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the virgin blessed, had laid her babe to rest. Time as our tedious song should hear have-ending, Heaven's youngest team star, hath fixed her polished car, her sleeping lord, with handmade lamp attending, and all about the courtly stable, bright, harnessed angels, sit in order, serviceable. End of On the Morning of Christ's Nativity by John Milton. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently wrapping, wrapping at my chamber-door. Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber-door, only this and nothing more. Odd distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished that the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, from the books there ceased of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain, rustling of each purple curtain, thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, tis some visitor and treating entrance at my chamber-door, some late visitor and treating entrance at my chamber-door. This is it and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, sir said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came wrapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door. That I scarce was sure I heard you, here I opened wide the door, darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore. As I whispered in an echo murmured back the word, Lenore, merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then, what there at is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. Tis the wind, and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter, and there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped, or stayed he, but with mean of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door, perched upon a bust of palace, just above my chamber-door, perched and sad, and nothing more. In this ebony bird beguiling, my sad fancy end is smiling, by the graven stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou I said art sure no craven, ghastly grim an ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's plutonian shore. Quote the raven, never more. Much I marveled this ungainly, foul to hear discourse so plainly, though his answered little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door. Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, was such a name as never more. But the raven sitting lonely, on the placid bust spoke only, that one word as if his soul and that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than uttered. Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, never more. Starled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless said I, what it utters is its only stock in store. Far from some unhappy master, whom a merciful disaster, followed fast and followed faster, till his songs won burden bore, till the dirges of his hope, that melancholy burden bore, of never, never more. But the raven still beguiling, all my sad soul into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking, fancy unto fancy thinking, what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly gaunt, and ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking never more. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the foul whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat dividing, with my head at ease reclining, on the cushioned velvet lining that the lamplight gloated over, but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating over, she shall press, ah, never more. Then me thought the air-grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by seraphine whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch I cried, that gath hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee, respite, respite, and knee-penth from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh quaff, this kind knee-penth, and forgot this loth Lenore. Quote the raven, never more. Prophets said I, thing of evil. Prophets still, if bird or devil. Whether tempt is sent, or whether tempt is tossed, thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted. On this home, by horror haunted, tell me truly I implore. Is there, is there balm agilead? Tell me, tell me I implore. Quote the raven, never more. Prophets said I, thing of evil. Prophets still, if bird or devil. By the heavens that bend above us, by the God we both adore. Tell the soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant aiden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quote the raven, never more. Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend I shrieked upstarting. Quote thee back into the temptest and the nice plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token, of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quote the raven, never more. And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting. On the pallid bust of palace, just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. And the lamplight or him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted, never more. End of THE RAVEN. Portrait of a Lady by T. S. Eliot Recorded for LibriVox.org by Catherine Eastman Now hast committed fornication, but that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead. The Jew of Malta 1. Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon, you have the scene arrange itself, as it will seem to do, with, I have saved this afternoon for you. And four wax candles in the darkened room, four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, an atmosphere of Juliet's tomb, prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. We have been, let us say, to hear the latest pole transmit the preludes through his hair and fingertips. So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul should be resurrected only among friends, some two or three, who will not touch the bloom that is rubbed and questioned in the concert room. And so the conversation slips, among the laities and carefully caught regrets, through attenuated tones of violins, mingled with remote cornets, and begins. You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, and how, how rare and strange it is to find in a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends. For indeed I do not love it, you knew, you are not blind, how keen you are to find a friend who has these qualities, who has, and gives those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you, without these friendships, life, what cochem are. Among the windings of the violins and the ariettes of cracked cornets, inside my brain a dull dom-dom begins, absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, capricious monotone, that is at least one definite false note. Let us take the air in a tobacco trance, admire the monuments, discuss the late events, correct our watches by the public clocks, then sit for half an hour and drink our box. Two. Now that Lilex are in bloom, she has a bowl of Lilex in her room, and twists one in her fingers while she talks. Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know what life is, you should hold it in your hands, slowly twisting the Lilex stocks. You let it flow from you, you let it flow. And youth is cruel and has no remorse, and smiles at situations which it cannot see. I smile, of course, and go on drinking tea. Yet with these April sunsets that somehow recall my buried life and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world to be wonderful and youthful after all. The voice returns like the insistent out of tune of a broken violin on an August afternoon. I am always sure that you understand my feelings, always sure that you feel, sure, that across the gulf you reach your hand. You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles heel, you will go on, and when you have prevailed you can say, at this point many a one has failed. But what have I, but what have I, my friend, to give you, what can you receive from me? Only the friendship and the sympathy of one about to reach her journey's end. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends. I take my hat. How can I make a cowardly amends for what she has said to me? You will see me any morning in the park reading the comics and the sporting page, particularly I remark an English countess goes upon the stage. A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, another bank defaulter has confessed. I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed, except when a street piano, mechanical and tired, reiterates some worn out, common song, with the smell of hyacinths across the garden, recalling things that other people have desired. Are these ideas right or wrong? Three. The October night comes down, returning as before, except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease. I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door, and feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. And so you are going abroad, and when do you return? But that's a useless question, you hardly know when you are coming back. You will find so much to learn. My smile falls heavily among the bric-a-brac. Perhaps you can write to me. My self-possession flares up for a second, this is as I had reckoned. I have been wondering frequently of late, but our beginnings never know our ends, why we have not developed into friends. I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark suddenly his expression in a glass. My self-possession gutters, we are really in the dark. For everybody said so, all our friends, they all were sure our feelings would relate so closely, I myself can hardly understand. We must leave it now to fate, you will write at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends. And I must borrow every changing shape to find expression. Dance, dance like a dancing bear, cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. Let us take the air in a tobacco trance. Well, and what if she should die some afternoon? Some gray and smoky evening yellow and rose, should die and leave me sitting pen in hand, with the smoke coming down above the housetops. Doubtful for quite a while, not knowing what to feel or if I understand, or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon, would she not have the advantage after all? This music is successful with a dying fall, now that we talk of dying. And should I have the right to smile? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.