 The Desert by Matilda Blind Red for LibriVox.org by Allison Erd Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the tidal sea thou hast, profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands, in hushed noons halting breath, calm and calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the somber rocks like reddening coals glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. A wreckage of some older world ere children grew, or flowers, when rock and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant bee shireen keeps warily aloof. But yawn mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan, a human form indeed but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here mid-piling sands like some huge cliff eniled, a Cyrus wise with folded hands mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus granite feud and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue, and half-stone. And Persia ruled, and Palestine, and o'er her violet seas arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike grease, and Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem of eastern empires, set imperiled the scarab's mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are, as idle flies, that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay. Imperpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below, art king, but king of stone. Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all the futurity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blind, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts. Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the tidal sea thou hast, profound stability, beneath the sun that burns and brands and hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the somber rocks like reddening coals grow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to prey on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing, or wreckage of some older world, ere children grew, or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps is to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant basherine keeps warily aloof. But yawn, mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan, a human form, indeed but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled, Oserious wise with folded hands mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed, and in the living rock carved this colossus granite food, and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest, and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue, and half-stone. When Persia ruled in Palestine, and o'er her violet seas arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike Greece. And Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem of eastern empires, set imperiled the scarab's mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay. And purpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below art king but king of stone, uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blend, read for LibriVox.org by Chelsea Baker. Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, but lacks the title see thou hast profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns in brands, and hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair. The somber rocks, like reddening coals, glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts the lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing, or wreckage of some older world ere children grow or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled and hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bins over all, far as winged thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent in a smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant bechurine keeps warily aloof. But yawn, mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human for my scan, a human for my deed but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here, mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff in Ild, Osiris wise, with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed, and in the living rock, carved this colossus granite theude, and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest, and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half statue and half stone. And Persia ruled in Palestine, and over her violent seas arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike Greece, and Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem, of eastern empire set and purled, the scarab's mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began, for titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies, that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay. Being purpled in the afterglow, now with the sun alone, of all the stormy wastes below, art king but king of stone, and circumscribed unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. The present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blind, read for LibriVox.org by CrossingChicken. Uncircumsccribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. What lacks the tidal zee thou hast? Profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands, in hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair. The somber rocks like reddening coals glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, happy eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, ere children grew, or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall, and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant bishareen keeps verily aloof. But yawn, mid-tumbled hill exprone, some human form I scan. A human form, indeed, but stone, a cold, colossal man. How came he here, mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled? Osiris-wise, with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild. Ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus granite-thewed and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive-prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue and half-stone. And Persia-ruled and Palestine, and over her violet seas, arose with marble gods divine, the great of godlike Greece. And Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her deadem, of eastern empires set, imperiled this carib's mystic gem. But chance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man. To whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay. Imperpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone of all the stormy waste below art king, but king of stone. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. And of Rome this recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blind Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. What lacks the tidal sea thou hast. Profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands in hushed noon's halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art, nay calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair. The somber rocks, like reddening coals, grow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, ear-children grew or flowers. Then rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee. Roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking-roof. In a even the vagrant becharine keeps warily aloof. But yawn mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan. A human form, indeed, but stone. A cold colossal man. How came he here, mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff and isle, Osiris-wise, with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus granite feud and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive, prone. Even on earth's barren breast, half-statue and half-stone. And Persia ruled, and Palestine, and o'er her violet seas, arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike grace. And Rome, the mistress of the world amid her diadem, of eastern empire set in pearl, the scarab's mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began. Poor titan of some earlier sphere, of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies, that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay. Unperpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below, art king but king of stone. Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blind Read for LibriVox.org by Dakota Davis, January 2010 Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. It lacks the tidal sea thou hast, profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands, in hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art nay calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the sober rocks like reddening coals glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm-tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made, without a living thing. For wreckage of some older world, ere children grew or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. In the solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall, and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay even the vagrant bee-charine keeps warily aloof. But yawn mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan, a human form indeed but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff in Isle? Osiris-wise with folding hands, mute spirit of the wild, ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus granite dude, and curled each crispy lock. Years ago have dropped to rest and left him passive prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half statue and half stone. And Persia ruled in Palestine, and o'er her violet seas arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike Greece, and Rome the mistress of the world, amid her diadem, of eastern empire set in purled, the scarabs mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since the first world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay. Ruled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below art king, but king of stone, uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Perth Western Australia Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the tidal sea thou hast, profound stability. With the moon that burns and brands in hushed noon's halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the somber rocks, like reddening coals glow lurid in the glare. Early some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to prey on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world ere children grew, or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee, roll ridges a black mountain wall, and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant becherine keeps wearily aloof. But yawn in tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan, a human form indeed, but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here, mid-parting sands, like some huge cliff eniled, azaris-wise, with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed, and in the living rock carved this colossus, granite-thued, and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest, and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue, and half-stone. And Persia ruled and Palestine, and all her violet seas arose, with marble gods divine, the grace of God like Greece. And Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her dire dim of eastern empires, set imperiled the scarab's mystic gem. But chance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earliest sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay. Imperpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below art king, but king of stone. Uncircumsccribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all faturity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blend Red for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence and Nieru Ayer Uncircumsccribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the tidal sea thou hast, profound stability. Take the sun that burns and brands in hushed noon's halting breath. Calm as the sphinx, upon thy sands, thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks as lair, the somber rocks like reddening coals grow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. All wreckage of some older world, year children grow, or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurls in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all. What a sphinx thought may flee, rolled ridges off black mountain wall and flat lands like the sea. No trays of footsteps to be seen, no tents, no smoking-roof. Nay, even the vagrant bee-shireen keeps verily aloof. But yawn, mid-tumbled hillocks, crone, some human form I scan, a human form, indeed, but stone, a cold, colossal man. How came he here, mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled, or cirrus-wise with folded hands, newt spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed, and in the living rock carved this colossus granite-thewed, and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest, and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue and half-stone. And Persia ruled, and Palestine, and or her violet seas arose, with marble gods divine, the grace of God-like Greece. And Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem of eastern empires set in pearl, this carap's mystic gem. Parchancy has been lying here since first the world began, for titan of some earlier sphere, of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and bust their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay, and purpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below art king, but king of stone. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blind. Read for LibriVox.org by Judy Roth. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. What lacks the title see thou hast, profound stability, beneath the sun that burns and brands in hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the somber rocks like reddening coals grow lurid in the glare, only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, ere children grew or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant bee shireen keeps a warily aloof, but yawn, mid-tumbled hillocks prone. Some human form I scan, a human form indeed, but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here, mid-piling sands like some huge cliff, eniled, Osiris-wise, with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild, ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus, granite-viewed and curled, each crispy lock, ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breasts, half statue and half stone, and Persia-ruled and Palestine and or her violet seas arose with marble gods divine the grace of god-like grease, and Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem of eastern empires, set imperiled the scarabs mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay, and purpled in the afterglow thou with the sun alone of all the stormy waste below art king, but king of stone. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. What lacks the title see thou hast profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands, in hushed noons halting breath, calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art, nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair, the somber rocks like reddening coals glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to prey on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, ere children grew or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as winged thought may flee. Roll ridges of black mountain wall, and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof, nay, even the vagrant bee-shereen keeps warily aloof. But yawn mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan. The human form indeed but stone, a cold colossal man. How came ye here, mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled, Osiris wise with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild? Ages ago the hands that hewed and in the living rock carved this colossus granite food, and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest, and left him passive prone, forgotten on earth's bare and breast, half statue and half stone, and Persia ruled and Palestine and or her violent seas, arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike Greece, and roam the mistress of the world amid her diadem, of eastern empires set imperiled, the scarabs mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies, as long ago he lay, imperpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below, art king but king of stone, uncircumstribed unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. The Desert by Matilda Blint Red for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the title sea thou cast, profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands and hushed noons halting breath, calm as this finks upon thy sands thou art, nay, calm as death. The Desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair. The somber rocks like reddening coals grow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to prey on what has lately died. No palm-tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing, it seems a land which nature made without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, where children grew, or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones were hurled in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as wing-thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking-roof, nay, even the vagrant bee-charine keeps warily aloof. But yawn mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan. A human form, indeed, but stone, a cold colossal man. How camey here mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled? Osiris-wise with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild. Ages ago the hands that hewed, and in the living rock carved this colossus granite food and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast, half-statue and half-stone. And Persia ruled, and Palestine, and o'er her violet seas arose with marble gods divine the grace of God-like grease, and Rome, the mistress of the world amid her diadem, of eastern empires set him purled the scarab's mystic gem. Percancy has been lying here since first the world began, poor titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay. Impurpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below, art king, but king of stone. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, the present here becomes the past for all futurity. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Desert by Matilda Blint, read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea, what lacks the tidal sea thou hast profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands in hushed noons halting breath. Calm as the sphinx upon thy sands, thou art nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, the jackal seeks his lair. The somber rocks, like reddening coals, glow lurid in the glare. Only some vulture far away, bald-headed, harpy-eyed, flaps down on lazy wing to pray on what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, no dove is on the wing. It seems a land which nature made without a living thing, or wreckage of some other world, ere children grow or flowers, when rocks and hissing stones will hold in hot volcanic showers. The solemn blue bends over all, far as wind thought may flee, roll ridges of black mountain wall and flat sands like the sea. No trace of footsteps to be seen, no tent, no smoking roof. Nay, when the vagrant becharine keeps warily aloof. But young, mid-tumbled hillocks prone, some human form I scan, a human form, indeed, but stone, a cold colossal man. How came he here mid-piling sands, like some huge cliff eniled, a Cyrus wise with folded hands, mute spirit of the wild. Ages ago the hand of the Tude and in the living rock carved this colossus granite feud and curled each crispy lock. Ages ago have dropped to rest and left him passive, prone, forgotten on earth's barren breast half statue and half stone. And Persia ruled and Palestine and o'er her violet seas arose with marble gods divine, the grace of godlike Greece. And Rome, the mistress of the world, amid her diadem of eastern empires set impurled the scarab's mystic gem. Per chance he has been lying here since first the world began, more titan of some earlier sphere of prehistoric man, to whom we are as idle flies that fuss and buzz their day, while still immutable he lies as long ago he lay. And purpled in the afterglow, thou with the sun alone, of all the stormy waste below art king but king of stone. Uncircumstribed, unmeasured, vast, eternal as the sea. The present here becomes the past for all the futurity. End of poem. This recording is in the public