 After Writing Poetry, by Maxwell Bodenheim, read for it LibriVox.org. My mind is a naked child living in the little half-crimson garden of my soul. I bring people to the child in the garden. Perhaps an apple vendor whose face is like a new woodcut, a shop girl like the quickly sketched princess in some old water-color, or a window-washer who seems to have been taken from a cool, swarthy fresco. At night, when they are gone, I and the naked child sit beneath a red bush and chat about them, half-regretting the flowers they have taken away. This recording is in the Public Domain, read by Alan Davis Drake. An Agnostic Hymn by Henrietta Anne Huxley. Read for LibriVox.org. O not the unreasoning God for me, for seeing, knowing all that in the wondrous world he made his creatures should befall, created them with keen desire, then called fulfillment sin, and drove them forth with flaming fire, their toil earned bread to win. And then repenting of his deeds, a man God did create, who by his death upon the cross that sin should expiate, the God whom man eats in the bread, whose blood he drinks in wine, such pagan faith be far from me, I own a more divine. I see in every tree that grows, in seed that all contains, in every wind, and clouds that flows, in fertilizing rains, in every stone whose atoms whirl, yet seems so coldly still, or in the wood with living sap, thy unresistless will, in sands that add a vibrant sound of music straightway leap, and range themselves in beautyous forms from out the inert heap. In far-off stars, in blazing suns that never, never rest, what though I cannot understand, my God is manifest. No knowledge mind that when I die I ere shall live again, I am thy creature, and content with what thou dost ordain. To thee I blow, I lift my soul, I, thy all-teaming clod, seen spirit, yet invisible, the great, the unknown God. THE BATTLE HEM OF THE REPUBLIC by Julia Ward Howe Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He had loosed the faithful lightning of his terrible swift sword. His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps. They have built in him an altar in the evening doos and damps. I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel. As ye deal with my contemnors, so with you my grace shall deal. Let the hero, born of women, crush the serpent with his heel. Since God is marching on. He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat. He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat. Obie swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet. Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me. As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. While God is marching on. End of the battle hymn of the republic. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. Blake by Marion Moore. Read for LibriVox.org. I wonder if you feel, as you look at us, as if you were seeing yourself in a mirror at the end of a long corridor, walking frailly. I am sure that we feel as we look at you, as if we were ambiguous and all but improbable reflections of the sun, shining palely. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Burning Bay by Robert Southwell. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow, surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow, and lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, a pretty babe all burning did in the air appear, who scorched with expressive heat such floods of tears did shed, as though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed. Alas, kothi, but newly born in fiery heats I fry, yet none approach to warm their hearts were feel my fire but I. My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns, love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes, shame and scorns. The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals, the metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls, for which, as now on fire, I am to work them to their good. So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood. With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away, and straight I call it into mind that it was Christmas Day, and of poem this recording is in the public domain. A Day by Maxwell Bodenheim Red for LibriVox.org Split brown-blue clouds are over me, and brown-blue mist is also over the little hills of my sprawling moods, and under the pale blue reverie of my soul. Yet the hills are covered with shouting goat-herds, to whom the mist and reverie is nothing. The Dead by Jones Verrie Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake I see them. Crowd on crowd they walk the earth. High leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare. And in their nakedness find cause for mirth. And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare. No sap doth through their clattering branches flow. When springing leaves and blossoms bright appear. Their hearts the living God has ceased to know, who gives the springtime to the expectant year. They mimic life, as if from him to steal his glow of health, to paint the livid cheek. They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel, that with a seeming heart their tongue may speak. And in their show of life more dead they live than those that to the earth with many tears they give. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Had I a heart for falsehood framed by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Red for LibriVox.org. Had I a heart for falsehood framed I ne'er could injure you. For though your tongue no promise claimed your charms would make me true. To you no soul shall bear deceit, no stranger offer wrong. But friends in all the aged you'll meet, and lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blessed another with your heart, they'll bid aspiring passion rest, and act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit, nor fear to suffer wrong. For friends in all the aged you'll meet, and lovers in the young. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Inner Vision by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes to pace the ground, if path there be or none. While a fair region round the traveller lies which he forbear's again to look upon. Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, the work of fancy, or some happy tone of meditation, slipping in between the beauty coming and the beauty gone. If thought and love desert us, from that day let us break off all commerce with the muse, with thought and love, companions of our way. What ere the senses take, or may refuse, the mind's internal heaven shall shed her do's of inspiration on the humblest lay. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. Alikeness by Willa Cather. Read for LibriVox.org. Alikeness, portrait bust of an unknown, capital Rome. In every line a supple beauty, the restless head a little bent, disgust of pleasure scorn of duty, the unseeing eyes of discontent. I often come to sit beside him, this youth who passed and left no trace of good or ill that did betide him. Save the disdain upon his face. The hope of all his house, the brother adored, the golden-hearted son, whom fortune pampered like a mother, and then a shadow on the son. Whether he followed Caesar's trumpet, or chanced the riskier game at home, to find how favor played the trumpet in fickle politics at Rome. Whether he dreamed a dream in Asia he never could forget by day, or gave his youth to some aspasia, or gamed his heritage away. Once lost, across the empire's border this man would seek his peace in vain. His look arraigns a social order somehow entrammeled with his pain. The dice of gods are always loaded. One gambler, arrogant as they, fierce, and by fierce injustice goaded, left both his hazard and the play. Incapable of compromises, unable to forgive or spare, the strange awarding of the prizes he had not fortitude to bear. Tricked by the forms of things material, the solid seeming arch and stone, the noise of war, the pomp imperial, the heights and depths about a throne. He missed, among the shapes diurnal, the old, deep-traveled road from pain, the thoughts of men which are eternal, in which, eternal, men remain. An empire long in ashes lying. His face still set against the stream. Yes, he looked, that gifted brother I loved, who passed and left no trace, not even luckier than this other, his sorrow in a marble face. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. In the cold I will rise, I will bathe in waters of ice, myself will shiver and strive myself alone in the dawn, and anoint forehead and feet and hands. I will shudder the windows from light, I will place in their sockets the four tall candles and set them aflame in the gray of the dawn, and myself will lay myself straight in my bed and draw the sheet under my chin. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. Tis a new life. Thoughts move not as they did with slow uncertain steps across my mind. In thronging haste, fast pressing on, they bid the portals open to the viewless wind, that comes not save when in the dust is laid the crown of pride that guilds each mortal brow. And from man's vision melting, fade the heavens and earth, their walls are falling now, fast crowding on. Each thought asks utterance strong. Storm lifted waves, swift rushing to the shore. On from the sea, they send their shouts along. Back through the cave-worn rocks their thunders roar. And I, a child of God by Christ made free, start from deaths slumbers to eternity. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. An Old Negro Asleep by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org. As spilled, dried wine that colors earth. The yellow-white light sinks into his rubbed brown face. And perhaps reaches even the seeded dreams below. Melting them to webbed shapes he cannot hold. Happily so, for if he awoke still bearing them, he would be a filled chest unable to open itself. He squats afterward, making white grinning tricklets. And thinks them the dreams he had. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. On the Road to the Sea by Charlotte Mew. Read for LibriVox.org. We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way. I, who make women smile, did not make you. But no man can move mountains in a day. So this hard thing is yet to do. But first I want your life. Before I die I want to see the world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes. There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering. It may be. Yet on brown fields there lies a haunting purple bloom. Is there not something in grey skies and in grey sea? I want what world there is behind your eyes. I want your life and you will not give it me. Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years, young and through August fields, a face, a thought, a swinging dream perched on a style. I would have liked, since so vile we are, to have taught you tears, but most to have made you smile. Today is not enough or yesterday. God sees it all. Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights, tell me. How vain to ask. But it is not a question, just a call. Show me then only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall. I like you best when you are small. Is this a stupid thing to say, not having spent with you one day? No matter. I shall never touch your hair or hear the little tick behind your breast. Still it is there. And as a flying bird brushes the branches where it may not rest, I have brushed your hand and heard the child in you. I like that best, so small, so dark, so sweet. And were you also, then, too grave and wise? Always, I think. Then put your far-off little hand in mine. Oh, let it rest. I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes. Or vex or scare what I love best. But I want your life before mine bleeds away. Here, not in heavenly hereafters. Soon. I want your smile this very afternoon. The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say, I wanted, and I sometimes got, the moon. You know, at dusk, the last birds cry. And round the house, the flap of the bat's low flight. Trees that go black against the sky. And then, how soon the night. No shadows of you on any bright road again. And at the darkening end of this, what voice? Whose kiss? As if you'd say. It is not I who have walked with you. It will not be I who take away peace. Peace, my little handful of the gleener's grain, from your reaped fields at the shut of day. Peace. Would you not rather die reeling with all the cannons in your ear? So, at least, would I. And I may not be here tonight, tomorrow morning, or next year. Still, I will let you keep your life a little while. And see, dear, I have made you smile. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Peddler by Charlotte Mew. Read for LibriVox.org. Lend me a little while. The key that locks your heavy heart. And I'll give you back, rarer than books and ribbons and beads bright to see. This little key of dreams, out of my pack. The road. The road beyond men's bolted doors. There shall I walk, and you go free of me. For yours lies north, across the moors, and mine lies south. To what seas? How if we stopped and let our solemn selves go by, while my gay ghost caught and kissed yours, as ghosts don't do? And by the wayside, this forgotten you and I sat, and were twenty-two. Give me the key that locks your tired eyes. And I will lend you this one, from my pack. Brighter than colored beads and painted books that make men wise. No, give it back. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Remorse of the Dead by Charles Baudelaire. Read for LibriVox.org. O shadowy beauty mine, when thou shalt sleep in the deep heart of a black marble tomb. When thou, for mansion and for bower, shall keep only one rainy cave of hollow gloom. And when the stone upon thy trembling breast, and on thy straight sweet body's supple grace, crushes thy will, and keeps thy heart at rest, and holds those feet from their adventurous race. Then the deep grave, who shares my reverie, for the deep grave is I the poet's friend, during long nights when sleep is far from thee, shall whisper. Ah, thou didst not comprehend the dead wept thus, thou woman frail and weak. And like remorse, the worm shall know thy cheek. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Sunday in a Certain City Suburb. By Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org. Four men, whose lives are the beginning of sun-silenced afternoons, and whose orange and red scarves are the sole flowers of the washed-out afternoons, sit, shifting dominoes. The afternoon outside of them dies, as fruit slowly pressed between fingers. But still the four stiff men shift dominoes. Their wives, wide women with tight, garnished hair, sit in the backyard, whispering tiny secrets and munching strings of grapes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. Three Dimensions by Man Ray. Read for LibriVox.org. Several small houses, discreetly separated by foliage. And the night. Maintaining their several identities by light. Which fills the inside of each, not as masses they stand, but as walls enclosing and excluding, like shawls. About little old women. What mystery hides within. What curiosity lurks without. One, the other, knowing nothing about. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. To A Man by Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org. The once white statue of a woman smudged and bloodied with the dirty fingers of years was his mind. It lay, grave and neglected, at the base of its tall pedestal. But one day I found him washing it with his soul, and heaving it with the strength of a smile, to the top of the pedestal. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Vagabond in the Park. By Maxwell Bodenheim. Read for LibriVox.org. They sit upon little benches, lips slack, eyelids blinking like flapping white shades in the window of empty rooms. The trees over them shift their lace with rushing, smothered laughs, and speak of the nakedness to come. But the straight, shining women under the trees have never known what it is to take off dust-painted clothes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.