 A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light, what call they at my window-bars, the south the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity. Darkling, deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone at peace, what wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth clearer than grease, dearer than Italy untold, delight and freshness centuries old, and first first loves and multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle-ages passionate, oh, passionless voice, what distant bells, lodged in the hills, what palace state, illyrian for it speaks it tells, without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday, all natural things, but more whence came, this yet remote a mystery, how do these starry nights proclaim a graver still divinity, this hope, this sand-city of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A THRUSH BEFORE DON A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars, the south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity, darkling, deliberate, what sings this wonderful one, alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, clearer than Italy, untold delight, and freshness centuries old, and first-first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle-age is passionate, oh, passionless voice? What distant bells lodged in the hills? What palace-state Ilyrian? For it speaks it tells, without desire, without dismay, some morrow, and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remord or mystery? How do these starry nights proclaim a graver still divinity, this hope, this sand-city of fear? Oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Maynell Read for LibriVox.org by Esther A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light, what call they at my window-bars? The south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity. Darkling deliberate what sings, this wonderful one, alone at peace. What wilder things and song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece, dearer than Italy, untold delight, and freshness centuries old. And first, first loves a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle-age is passionate, oh, passionless voice, what distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace state, ill-rien, for it speaks it tells without desire, without dismay, some moral, and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet-remotor mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim, a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A thrush before dawn, by Alice Menel, read for LibriVox.org by Chandon Dorenila. A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes, resembling stars, single in spirit well notes of light. What cold day at my window-bars, the south, the pass, the day to be, an ancient infelicity, darkling, deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone, at peace, what wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight, and freshness of centuries old. And first-first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, and sesual childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens, and childhood all the way. What middle-ages passionate, oh, passionless voice, what distant bells lodge in the hills, a palace state Illyrian, for it speaks, it tells, without desire, without dismay, some moral, and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remordial mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity, this hope, this sanctity of fear? Oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. And the poem, this recording is in a public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Maynall, read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. A voice peels in this end of night a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars? The south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity, darkling deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone at peace? What wilder things than song? What things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold light, and freshness, centuries old? And first, first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood, long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle-ages passionate, oh, passionless voice, what distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace-state Illyrian, for it speaks, it tells without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remote a mystery. How do these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity, this hope, the sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear, end of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Manel, read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. A voice peels in this end of night a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars, the south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity? Darkling, deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, better than Italy, untold delight, and freshness centuries old? And first, first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle-age is passionate, oh, passionless voice? What distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace-state Illyrian, for it speaks it tells without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday? All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remote or mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Maynall, read for LibriVox.org by Lauren Lazarus. A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light, what call they at my window bars? The south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity. Darkling deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight and freshness centuries old? And first, first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What Middle Ages' passionate, oh, passionless voice? What distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace state Illyrian? For it speaks, it tells, without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remote or mystery? How did these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity? This hope, the sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Mainle, read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Linton, Bristol, UK. A voice peels in this end of night a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light, what call they at my window bars? The south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity? Darkling, deliberate, what sings this wonderful one alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight and freshness centuries old? And first, first loves, a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood, long renewed and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood, all the way. What middle age is passionate, oh, passionless voice? What distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace, state, delirium? Where it speaks, it tells without desire, without dismay, some morrow, and some yesterday, all natural things, but more. When it's came this yet remote a mystery, how do these starry notes proclaim a gravestill divinity, this hope, this sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A thrush before dawn by Alice Mail, read for LibriVox.org by Secrets. A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars? The south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity, darkling, deliberate. What sings this wonderful one alone at peace? What wilder things than song? What things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight and freshness centuries old. And first, first loves, a multitude, the exaltation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What Middle Ages passionate, oh, passionless voice, what distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace state, illerad, for it speaks it tells, without desire, without dismay, some morrow, and some yesterday, all natural things, but more, whence came this yet remota mystery. How do these story-notes, plough-crame, a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear, oh, innocent throat, oh, human ear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Thrash Before Dawn by Alice Menel, read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, June 2008. A voice peels, in this end of the night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars, the south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity, darkling, deliberate. What sings this wonderful one alone at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, the error than Italy, untold delight, and freshness a century's old. And the first, first loves, the multitude, the exaltation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain in the gardens, gardens night and day, gardens and a childhood all the way. What middle-aged, passionate, oh, passionless voice. What distant barrels lodged in the hills, what a pearly state Ilarian, for it speaks, it tells, without desire, without dismay, some immoral and some yesterday. All nature of things, but more. Whence came this yet removed her mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of a fear, oh innocent throat, oh human ear. End of the poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Thrush Before Dawn by Alice Maynall, redvillabovex.org by Schertigo. A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars, the south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infillicity? Darkling deliberate, what sings this wonderful one, alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight and freshness centuries old? And first, first loves a multitude, the exultation of their pain, ancestral childhood long renewed, at midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What Middle Ages passionate, oh passionless voice, what distant bells lodged in the hills, what palace state Illyrian? For it speaks, it tells, without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday. All natural things, but more, whence came this yet remote mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim, a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear, oh innocent throat, oh human ear. A Thrust Before Dawn by Alice Manel, read for LibraVox.org by Sarah Williams. A voice peels in this end of night, a phrase of notes resembling stars, single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars, the south, the past, the day to be, an ancient infelicity? Darkling deliberate, what sings this wonderful one, alone at peace? What wilder things than song? What things sweeter than youth, clearer than grease, dearer than Italy, untold delight and freshness centuries old? At first, first loves, a multitude, the exaltation of their pain, ancestral childhood, long renewed, and midnight's of invisible rain, and gardens, gardens, night and day, gardens and childhood all the way. What middle ages, passionate, oh passionless voice? What distant bells lodged in the hills? What palace state, Elyrian? For it speaks, it tells without desire, without dismay, some morrow and some yesterday. All natural things, but more. Whence came this yet remote or mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim a graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear, oh innocent throat, oh human ear.