 Heaven, by Rupert Brooke, read for LibreVox.org by Crystal. FISH Fly replete in depths of June, doodling away their watery noon. Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream in pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all, they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. And may not doubt that, somehow, good shall come of water and of mud. And sure, the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know, by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry. Mud onto mud, death eddies near, not hear the appointed end, not hear. But somewhere, beyond space and time, is wetter water and slimy or slime. And there they trust their swimmeth one, who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous, omnipotent, and kind. And under that almighty fin, the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in the eternal brook, but more than mundane weeds are there, and mud celestial fare, not caterpillars drift around, and paradiesel grubs are found, on fading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies, and in that heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Seven by Rupert Brooke. Read for LibriVox.org by David Federman. Fish fly replete in the depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon. Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fish you hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry. Mud unto mud, death at ease near, not hear the appointed end, not hear, but somewhere beyond space and time, is wetter water slimy-er slime. And there they trust, their swimeth one who swam air rivers were begun. Immense of fishy form in mind, squamous, omnipotent and kind, and under that almighty fin, the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say in the eternal brook. But more than mundane weeds are there and mud celestially fair. Fat caterpillars drift around and paradiesel grubs are found, unfading moths immortal flies and the worm that never dies. And in that heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence Fish fly repeat in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon. Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond. But is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all, they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that, somehow, good shall come of water and of mud. Ensure the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know, by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry, mud unto mud, death eddies near, not here the appointed end, not here, but somewhere, beyond space and time, is wetter water, slimy or slime. And there, they trust, their swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun. Immense of fishy form and mind, squamous, omnipotent, and kind. And under that almighty fin the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in that eternal brook. But more than mundane weeds are there, and mud celestially fair. Fat caterpillars drift around, and paradisical grubs are found, unfading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies, and in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Laura. Fish fly replete in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon. Ponder deep wisdom dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream in pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all they swear for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the Reverend I must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know by faith we cry the future is not wholly dry. Mud unto mud, death at ease near, not here the appointed end, not here, but somewhere beyond space and time is water, water, slimy or slime. And there they trust their swimmath one who swam their rivers were begun. Immense of fishy form in mind, squamous, omnipotent, and kind. And under that almighty fin the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in the eternal brook, but more than mundane weeds are there and mud celestially fair. Fat caterpillars drift around and paradisal grubs are found, unfading moss and woodow flies and the worm that never dies. And in that heaven of all their wish, there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke. Read for Librevox.org by Joseph Finkbag. Fish fly replete in depth of June, dwindling away their watery noon. Upon the deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all they swear for our unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know by faith we cry the future is not wholly dry. Mud under mud, death eddies near, not here the appointed end, not here. But somewhere beyond space and time is wetter water, slimy a slime, and there they trust. There swimeth one whose swam-air rivers were begun. Immense of fishy form and mind, squamous omnipotent and kind, and under that almighty fin, the littler's fish may enter in. Oh, never fly can seal the hook, fish say in the eternal brook, and more than mundane weeds there, and more celestially fair, fat caterpillars drift around, and paradisle grubs are found, unfading moths immortal flies, and the worm that never dies. And in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith. Fish fly replete in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon, pondered deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream in pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all, they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know, by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry, mud unto mud, death at his near, but not here the appointed end, not here, but somewhere beyond space and time is wetter water, slimy or slime, and there, they trust, their swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous, omnipotent and kind, and under that almighty fin the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in the eternal brook, but more than mundane weeds are there, and mud celestial leaf air, fat caterpillars drift around, and paradisal grubs are found, unfading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies, and in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke Read for LibriVox.org by Rick Rodstrom Fish fly replete in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon, ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all, they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the reverent I must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know, by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry, mud unto mud, death at ease near, not here, the appointed end, not here, but somewhere beyond space and time is wetter water, slimy or slime. And there they trust their swimmeth one who swam air rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous, omnipotent, and kind, and under that almighty fin the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in the eternal brook, and more than mundane weeds are there, and mud, celestially fair. Fat caterpillars drift around and paradisal grubs are found, unfading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies. And in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heaven by Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Secret. Fish fly replete in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon. Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all, they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that, somehow good shall come of water and of mud, and sure the reverent eye must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know by faith we cry, the future is not wholly dry. Mud unto mud, death eddies near, not here the appointed end, not here, but somewhere beyond space and time is wetter water and slimy slime. And there they trust this whimmyth one who swam air rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squameless, omnipotent, and kind. And under that almighty vin the littlest fish may enter in. Oh, never fly conceals a hook. Fish say in the eternal brook, but more than mundane weeds are there and mud celestial fare. Fat caterpillars drift around and paradiscial grubs are found, unfading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies. And in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land, say fish. End of poem. This recording is in the public.