 A night in March, by Duncan Campbell Scott, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a war-wind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow-slipped singing over the wall, and ever, when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. The spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with diverse ancient dooms, with dreams dead laden to the core. Thou art too deep with woe, I have no harbour place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs, and go, go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nurses very brood, and as I spoke I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. Thou betrayed the rest of kings, with tragic fears and spectres won. My dreams are lit with pure-er things, with humbler ghosts be gone, be gone. The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart that scorned his caverns, curve and bars, that leaped the bounds of time and art, and lost thee, lingering near the stars. It was so still, I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought the lynx-moan from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul. The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marish wood. For have I ceased as those who die and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead, the auroras rose in solitude, and wanly paled within the room the window showed an ebb and rude upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark. It was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. This rapture had a dreaming close. The dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace, and folded in the fading night I felt the dawning sink and cease. A night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott, read for Libervox.org by Chad Horner from Polly Clare in Coney under Northern Ireland, situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland, at Eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clods with ruby blood, uproared a war went from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing over the wall, and ever when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with divers ancient domes, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thy art too deep with woe, I have no harbour place for thee. Lead me to lesser griefs and go, go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered, like a frightened child, that fears its nurses very brood, and as I spoke I heard the wind, wind plugging through the shattered wood. Hast I betrayed the rest of kings, with tragic fears and sceptres weighing? My dreams are lit with pure things, with humbler ghosts be gone, be gone. The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the ribbon wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart, that scorned his caverns, curve and bars, that leaped the bounds of time and art, and lost thee lingering near the stars. It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought, the links moaned from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul. The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marsh wood. Or have I ceased, as those who die, and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry, that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and wainly pealed within the room. The window showed an ebony rod, upon the blanched an ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark, that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark. It was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of agent power, a wild and elemental fall. Its rapture had a dreaming close. The dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose, in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace. Unfolded in the fading night. I felt the dawning sink uncease, and of poem this recording is in the public demand. A Night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a war wind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing over the world, and ever when the wind would cease, links cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing runes, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with diver's ancient dooms, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thou art too deep with woe, I have no harbour place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs, and go, go with the great wind to this sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nurses fairy brood, and, as I spoke, I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings with tragic fears and spectres won? My dreams are lit with purer things, with humbler ghosts, be gone, be gone! The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart that scorned his cavern's curve and bars, that leaped the bounds of time and art, and lost thee lingering near the stars? It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought the links-mone from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul? The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath, and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marish wood. Or have I ceased, as those who die and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and only paled within the room. The window showed an ebb and rude upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark, it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. This rapture had a dreaming close. The dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose, in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace. And folded in the fading night, I felt the dawning sink and cease. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott. Read for LibriVox.org by Harman Busby. March 7th, 2020. At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood. Uproared a war-wind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing over the wall, and ever when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with divers ancient dooms, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thou art too deep with woe, I have no harbor place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs, and go, go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nurses very brood, and as I spoke I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. As thou betrayed the rest of kings, with tragic fears and spectres won, my dreams are lit with purer things, with humbler ghosts, be gone, be gone. The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart that scorned his caverns' curve and bars that leaped the bounds of time and art, and lost thee lingering near the stars? It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still, the desolate deeper silence brought the lynx-mone from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul? The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marished wood. Or have I ceased as those who die, and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and wandily paled within the room. The window showed an ebb and rude upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. As rapture had a dreaming close, the dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace, and folded in the fading night I felt the dawning sink and cease. A night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a whirlwind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipping, singing over the world. And ever when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with diverse ancient dunes, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thou art too deep with woe. I have no harbour place for thee. Leave me till Asa griefs and go. Go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nurses very brood, and as I spoke I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. As thou betrayed the rest of kings with tragic fears and spectres won, my dreams are lit with pure things with humbler ghosts. Be gone, be gone. The noisy dark was deaf and blind. Still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate of some wild heart that scorned his cavern's curve and bars, that leaped the bounds of time and art and lost thee lingering near the stars? It was so still I heard my thought. Even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought the lynx-mone from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul? The wind rushed down the roof and wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marsh wood. Or have I ceased as those who die, and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and wonly paled within the room. The window showed in ebb and rude upon the bleached and ashing gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose-shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. Its rapture had a dreaming close. The dawn grew slowly on the wall, spedding in fragile veils of rose in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace. And folded in the fading night I felt the dawning sink and cease. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott Red for LibriVox.org by Nemo At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a war-wind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing over the wall, and ever when the wind would cease a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with diverse ancient dunes, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thou art too deep with woe. I have no harbor place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs and go, go with a great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nursefairy brood, and as I spoke I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. Has thou betrayed the rest of kings with tragic fears and spectres won? My dreams are lit with pure things, with humbler ghosts be gone, be gone. The noisy dark was deaf and blind. Still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart that scorned his cavern's curve and bars that leaped the bounds of time and art, and lost thee lingering near the stars? It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought the lynx moan from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul? The wind rushed down the roughen wrath and shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marish wood. Or have I ceased as those who die and leave the broken word unsaid? Art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude and wanly paled within the room. The window showed an ebb and rude upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could now choose but pause and hark it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with a rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. This rapture had a dreaming close. The dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose and tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace, and folded in the fading night. I felt the dawning sink and cease. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a war wind from the north and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing o'er the wall, and ever when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with divers ancient dooms, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit thou art too deep with woe. I have no harbor place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs and go, go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child, that fears its nurses' fairy brood. And as I spoke, I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings, with tragic fears and spectres won? My dreams are lit with purer things, with humbler ghosts, be gone, be gone! The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Heart thou the fate for some wild heart, that scorned his cavern's curve and bars, that leaped the bounce of time and art, and lost thee lingering near the stars? It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate deeper silence brought the lynx-mone from the lonely hill. Heart thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul? The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marish wood. Or have I ceased, as those who die and leave the broken word unsaid, heart thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and wonly paled within the room. The window showed an ebb and rude, upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark, that answered not my idle word. I could not choose but pause and hark, it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. Its rapture had a dreaming close, the dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose, in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace, and folded in the fading night, I felt the dawning sink and cease. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Night in March by Duncan Campbell Scott, read for LibriVox.org by Rumpelt Poetry. At eve the fiery sun went forth, flooding the clouds with ruby blood, uproared a war-wind from the north, and crashed at midnight through the wood. The demons danced about the trees, the snow slipped singing over the wall, and ever when the wind would cease, a lynx cried out within the cold. A spirit walked the ringing rooms, passing the locked and secret door, heavy with diverse ancient dooms, with dreams dead laden to the core. Spirit, thou art too deep with woe, I have no harbor place for thee. Leave me to lesser griefs and go, go with the great wind to the sea. I faltered like a frightened child that fears its nurses very brood, and as I spoke I heard the wild wind plunging through the shattered wood. Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings with tragic fears and spectres won? My dreams are lit with pure things, with humbler ghosts, be gone, be gone! The noisy dark was deaf and blind, still the strange spirit strayed or stood, and I could only hear the wind go roaring through the riven wood. Art thou the fate for some wild heart that scorned his cavern's curve and bars, that leapt the bounds of time and art, and lost thee, lingering near the stars. It was so still I heard my thought, even the wind was very still. The desolate, deeper silence brought the links moan from the lonely hill. Art thou the thing I might have been, if all the dead had known control, risen through the ages, trembling sheen, a mirage of my desert soul. The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, then shrieked and held its breath and stood, like one who finds beside his path a dead girl in the marrish wood. Or have I ceased, as those who die and leave the broken word unsaid, art thou the spirit ministry that hovers round the newly dead? The auroras rose in solitude, and wanly, paled within the room. The window showed an ebon rude upon the blanched and ashen gloom. I heard a voice within the dark that answered not my idle word. I could not choose, but pause and hark, it was so magically stirred. It grew within the quiet hour, with the rose shadows on the wall. It had a touch of ancient power, a wild and elemental fall. Its rapture had a dreaming close, the dawn grew slowly on the wall, spreading in fragile veils of rose, in tender lines of lemon gold. The world was turning into light, was sweeping into life and peace, and folded in the fading night, I felt the dawning sink and cease. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.