 Come hither, child, by Emily Bronte, read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. Come hither, child, who gifted thee with power to touch that string so well? How dares thou rouse up thoughts in me, thoughts that I would, but cannot quell? Nay, chide not, lady, long ago I heard those notes in Ula's hall, and had I known they'd waken woe, I'd weep their music to recall. But thus it was, one festal night, when I was hardly six years old, I stole away from crowds in light, and sought a chamber dark and cold. I had no one to love me there, I knew no comrade, and no friend, and so I went to sorrow, where heaven, only heaven, saw me bend. Loud blew the wind, twasad to stay from all that splendor barred away. I imagined, in the lonely room, a thousand forms of fearful gloom, and with my wet eyes raised on high, I prayed to God that I might die. Suddenly, in that silence drear, a sound of music reached my ear, and then a note. I hear it yet, so full of soul, so deeply sweet, I thought that Gabriel's self had come to take me to thy father's home. Three times it rose, that seraph strain, then died, nor breathed again. But still the words, and still the tone, dwell round my heart when all alone. End of Poem The convict of Clonmala by Jeremiah Joseph Kalanen Red for LibriVox.org by DiliBab. How hard is my fortune, and vain my repining, the strong rope of fate for this young neck is twining. My strength is departed, my cheeks sunk and sallow, while I languish in chains in the jail of Clonmala. No boy in the village was ever yet milder. I'd play with a child, and my sport would be wilder. I'd dance without tiring from morning till even, and the goal-ball I'd strike to the lightning of heaven. At my bed-foot decaying my hurl-ball is lying. Through the boys of the village my goal-ball is flying, my horse among the neighbors neglected may follow, while I pine in chains in the jail of Clonmala. Next Sunday the pattern at home will be keeping. The young act of hurlers the field will be sweeping. With the dance of fair maidens the evening they'll hallow, while this heart once so gay shall be cold in Clonmala. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. An Elegy by Oliver Goldsmith from a Nonsense Anthology collected by Carolyn Wells, read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. On the glory of her sex Mrs. Mary Blaise. Good people all with one accord lament for Madame Blaise, who never wanted a good word from those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door and always found her kind. She freely lent to all the poor who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please with manners wondrous winning, and never followed wicked ways, unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, with hoop of monstrous sighs, she never slumbered in her pew, but when she shed her eyes. Her love was sought, I do avir, by twenty bow and more. The king himself has followed her when she has walked before. But now her wealth and fine reflade, her hangers on cut short all, the doctors found when she was dead her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow soar, for Kent Street well may say, that had she lived a twelve-month more she had not died today. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. IF By E. E. Cummings, read for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis. If freckles were lovely, and day was night, and measles were nice, and a lie weren't a lie. Life would be delight, but things couldn't go right, for in such a sad plight, I wouldn't be I. If earth was heaven, and now was hence, and past was present, and false was true, there might be some sense, but I'd be in suspense, for on such a pretense, you wouldn't be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, and dirt was cleanly, and tears were glee, things would seem fair, yet they'd all despair, for if here was there, we wouldn't be we. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Incentive by Sarah Norcliffe Clegghorn. Read for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker, September 2007. I saw a sickly cellar plant droop on its feeble stem, for want of sun and wind and rain and dew, of freedom. Then a man came through the cellar, and I heard him say, for foolish plant, by all mean stay contented here, for know you not, this stagnant dampness, mold and rot, are your incentive to grow tall, and reach that sunbeam on the wall. Even as he spoke, the sun's one spark withdrew, and left the dust more dark. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Instinct of Hope by John Clare. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Is there another world for this frail dust to warm with life, and be itself again? Something about me, daily speaks their must. And why should instinct nourish hopes and vain, to his nature's prophecy that such will be? And everything seems struggling to explain the close, sealed volume of its mystery. Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace, as seeming anxious of eternity. To meet that calm, and find a resting place. Even the small violet feels a future power, and waits each year renewing blooms to bring. And surely man is no inferior flower, to die unworthy of a second spring? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In October by John Burroughs. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Now comes the sunset of the verdant year. Chemical fires, still and slow, burn in the leaves, till trees and groves appear dipped in the sunset's glow. Through many stained windows of the wood, the day sends down its beams, till all the acorn-punctured solitude of sunshine softly dreams. I take my way where sentry's cedars stand along the bushy lane, and white-throats stir and call on every hand, or lift their wavering strain. The hazel-bush holds up its crinkled gold, and scents the loitering breeze, a nuptial wreath amid its leaf-age old, that laughs at frost's decrease. A purple bloom is creeping o'er the ash, dull wine against the day, while dusky cedars wear a crimson sash of woodbines kindled spray. I see the solid oak trees smoldering fire, sullen against emerald rye, and yonder sugar maples while desire to match the sunset sky. On hedge and tree the bittersweet has hung its fruit that looks a flower. While alder spray with coral berries strung its part of autumn's dower. The plaintive calls of bluebirds fill the air, wandering voices in the morn. The ruby kinglet, flitting here and there, wines again his elfin horn. Now Downey shyly drills his winter cell, his white chips strewn the ground, while squirrels bark from hill to acorn dell, a true autumnal sound. I hear the feathered thunder of the grouse soft rolling through the wood, or pause to note when hurrying mole or mouse just stirs the solitude. Anon the furtive flock call of the quail comes up from the weedy fields, afar the mellow thud of lonely flail its homely music yields. Behold the orchards piled with painted spheres, new plucked from bending trees, and bronzed huskers tossing golden ears in genial sun and breeze. Once more the tranquil days brood over the hills, and sooth earth's toiling breast, a benediction all the landscape fills that breathes of peace and rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. Red for LibriVox.org by David Butler. It was Brillig, and the sly the toves did gire and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy where the borough goes and the momeraths outgrabe. Beware the jabberwock, my son, the jaws that bite the claws that catch. Beware the jab-jab bird, and shun the firmious band of snatch. He took his vorpal sword in hand. Long time the man's own foe he sought. So rested he by the tum-tum tree, and stood a while in thought. And as an oofish thought he stood, the jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the tullgy wood, and burbled as it came. One-two, one-two, and through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left it dead, and with its head he went glumping back. And has thou slain the jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy. Oh, frabduous day, Calukale! he chortled in his joy. It was Brillig, and the sly the toves did gire and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy where the borough goes and the momeraths outgrabe. End of poem. This has been a LibriVox recording. All such recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LIBRIVOX.ORG. King Calmore of the wine-red hand. Red for LibriVox.org by DiliBab. I walked entranced through the land of Morn, the sun with wondrous excess of light shone down and glanced over seas of corn, and lustrous gardens are left and right, even in the climb of resplendent Spain beams no such sun upon such a land. But it was the time. It was in the rain of Calmore of the wine-red hand. Anon stood nigh by my side a man of princely aspect and port sublime, him queried eye. Oh, my lord and can, what climb is this, and what golden time? Even he, the climb is the climb to praise, the climb is errands, the green and the bland, and it is the time, these be the days, of Calmore of the wine-red hand. Then saw I thrones and circling fires, and a dome rose near me, as by a spell, wence flowed the tones of silver liars, and many voices in wreaths swell, and their thrilling chime fell on my ears as the heavenly hymn of an angel band. It is now the time, these be the years, of Calmore of the wine-red hand. I sought the hall, and behold, a change, from light to darkness, from joy to woe, kings, nobles, all, looked aghast and strange. The minstrel group saved in dumbest show, had some great crime wrought this dread amaze, this terror? None seemed to understand, to was then the time, we were in the days, of Calmore of the wine-red hand. I again walked forth, but low the sky showed fleck with blood, and an alien sun glared from the north, and there stood on high, amid his shorn beams as skeleton. It was by the stream of the castle main, one autumn eve in the Chewton's land, that I dreamed this dream, of the time and rain of Calmore of the wine-red hand. End of poem? This recording is in the public domain. Life by Charlotte Bronte Red for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis Life, believe, is not a dream so dark, as sages say. Oft a little morning rain foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, but these are transient all. If the showers will make the roses bloom, a why lament its fall? Rapidly, merrily, life's sunny hours flit by, Manfully, cheerily, enjoy them as they fly. What, though death at time steps in and calls our best away? What, though sorrow seems to win or hope a heavy sway? Yet hope, again elastic springs unconquered though she fell, still buoyant are her golden wings, still strong to bear as well. Manfully, fearlessly, the day of trial bear, for gloriously, victoriously, can courage well despair. End of poem? This recording is in the public domain. Lullaby by William Blake Red for LibriVox.org by Jesse Crawford O for a voice like thunder and a tongue to drown the throat of war. When the senses are shaken and the soul is driven to madness, who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand? When the whirlwind of fury comes from the throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance drive the nations together, who can stand? When sin quaps his broad wings over the battle and sails rejoicing in the flood of death, when souls are torn to everlasting fire, and fiends of hell rejoice upon the slain? O who can stand? O who hath caused this? O who can answer the throne of God? The kings and nobles of the land have done it. Hear it not, heaven, thy ministers have done it. End of poem? This recording is in the public domain. A March Glee by John Burroughs Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake I hear the wild geese honking from out the misty night. A sound of moving armies on sweeping in their might. The river ice is drifting beneath their northward flight. I hear the bluebird plaintive from out the morning sky. Or see his wings a twinkle. But with the azure vie. No other bird more welcome nor more prophetic cry. I hear the sparrows diddy near my study door. A simple song of gladness that winter days are o'er. My heart is singing with him. I love him more and more. I hear the starling fluting his liquid o' Kaylee. I hear the downy drumming, his vernal revely. From out the maple orchard the nut hatch calls to me. O spring is surely coming. Her couriers fill the air. Each morn are new arrivals. Each night her ways prepare. I sent her fragrant garments. Her foot is on the stair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Why and wherefore set out one day to hunt for a wild negation? They agreed to meet at a cool retreat on the point of interrogation. But the night was dark, and they missed their mark, and, driven well nigh to distraction, they lost their ways in a murky maze of utter abstruse abstraction. Then they took a boat and were soon afloat on a sea of speculation, but the sea grew rough and their boat, though tough, was split into an equation. As they floundered about in the waves of doubt rose a fearful hypothesis, who jibbered with glee as they sank in the sea, and the last that they saw was this. On a rock-bound reef of unbelief there sat the wild negation. Then they sank once more and were washed ashore at the point of interrogation. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake We stood by a pond that winter day, and the sun was white as though chidden of God. And a few leaves lay on the starving sod. They had fallen from an ash and were gray. Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove over tedious riddles of years ago, and some words played between us to and fro, on which lost the more by our love. The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing alive enough to have strength to die, and a grin of bitterness swept thereby like an ominous bird-wing. Since then keen lessons that love deceives and brings with wrong have shaped to me your face, and the God-cursed sun, and a tree, and a pond edged with grayish leaves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O Captain My Captain by Walt Whitman Red for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis O Captain My Captain, our fearful trip is done. The ship has weathered every rack. The prize we sought is won. The port is near. The bells I hear. The people all exalting. While fellow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. But O heart, heart, heart, O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. O Captain My Captain, rise up and hear the bells. Rise up! For you the flag is flung. For you the bugle trills. For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths. For you the shores a-crowding. For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. Here, Captain, dear father, the arm beneath your head. It is some dream that on the deck you fallen, cold, and dead. My captain does not answer. His lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm. He has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound. Its voyage closed and done. From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object one. Exalto shores and ring O bells. But I, with mournful tread, walk the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. This recording is in the public domain. And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south, oh, still delay in the gay woods and in the golden air. Like to a good old age released from care. Journeying in long serenity away. In such a bright late quiet, wood that I might wear out life like thee. Red bowers and brooks, and dearer yet the sunshine of kind looks. And music of kind voices ever nigh. And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. The woods are haggard and lonely. The skies are hooded for snow. The moon is cold in heaven, and the grasses are seer below. The bearded swamps are breathing a mist from mirrors afar. And grimly the great bear circles under the pale pole star. There is never a voice in heaven nor ever a sound on earth. Where the specters of winter are rising over the night's waned girth. There is slumber and death in the silence. There is hate in the winds so keen. And the flash of the north's great sword blade circles its cruel sheen. The world grows aged and wintry. Love's face peaked and white. And death is kind to the tired ones, who sleep in the north to night. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. The pessimist by P. G. Woodhouse. Recorded for LibriVox.org by Craig Allen. They tell me that the weather's fair, the day's serene and balmy. No more for rain need I prepare, no chilly blast shall harm me. They pray to warmth of gentle glows. They rave of how sublime it is. I shake my head as one who knows just what the British climate is. They say the trees are growing green, that flowers are in bloom. That bees and butterflies are seen. They bid me quit my room. My hat and boots to me they bear. They tell me what crime it is to stay indoors, but I'm aware just what the British climate is. The tale they tell is just the same they told in days of yore. I know the weather's deadly game, I've seen it played before. I call it deadly, well to those by nature such as I'm it is. One suffers much before one knows just what the British climate is. This is my fixed resolve to keep thick clothing always handy. Add extra blankets when I sleep, and not run short of brandy. I wager we'll be having snow before mid-summer time it is. I'll take no risks, I chance to know just what the British climate is. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The old cock robin to the stye has come, with olive feathers and its ruddy breast. And the old cock, with waddles and red comb, struts with the hens, and seems to like some best, then crows and looks about for little crumbs, swept out by little folks an hour ago. The pigs sleep in the stye, the bookman comes, the little boy lets home-close nesting go, and pockets, tops and toes where daisies blow, to look at the new number just laid down, with lots of pictures and good stories too, and jack the giant killer's high renown. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. At the Door by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Read for LibriVox.org by Jake Baker, September 2007. There's a haunting horror nearest that nothing drives away. Fierce, lamping eyes at nightfall, a crouching shade by day. There's a whining at the threshold, there's a scratching at the floor. To work to work in heaven's name, the wolf is at the door. The day was long, the night was short, the bed was hard and cold. Still weary are the little ones, still weary are the old. We are weary in our cradles, from our mother's toil untold. We are born to hoarded weariness, a sum to hoarded gold. We will not rise, we will not work. Nothing the day can give is half so sweet an hour of sleep, better to sleep than live. What power can stir these heavy limbs? What hope these dull hearts swell? What fear more cold, what pain more sharp than the life we know so well? The slow, relentless patting step that never goes astray. The rustle in the underbrush, the shadow in the way. The straining flight, the long pursuit, the steady gain behind. Death wearied man and tireless brute, and the struggle wild and blind. There's a hot breath at the keyhole, and a tearing as of teeth. Well do I know the bloodshot eyes and the dripping jaws beneath. There's a whining at the threshold, there's a scratching at the floor. To work, to work in heaven's name, the wolf is at the door.