 Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org In the rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org By Bob Sherman In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Caliban In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by CalmDragon.net In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and all the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Chris Weigert. In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Dana Meilinger. In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Ernst Patinama. In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire, end of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Glenn Kirsten In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire, end of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Glenn Simonson Omaha, Nebraska In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by James O'Connor November 2009 In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Katherine In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, the shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flower of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Mike Vendetti MikeVendetti.com In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public, domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Philip Griffiths In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Philip Griffiths In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's Newfoundland, Canada In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson Red for LibriVox.org by Tricia G In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is welled in mire, low, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, low, the flowers of fire.