 All things drink, by an acreon, translated by Thomas Stanley, read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. Fruitful earth drinks up the rain, trees from earth drink that again. The sea drinks the air, the sun drinks the sea, and him the moon. Is it reason, then, do you think, I should thirst when all else drink? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Be Not Sad Because All Men, by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Be not sad because all men prefer a lying clamour before you. Sweetheart, be at peace again. Can they dishonour you? They are sadder than all tears, their lives asynned as a continual sigh, proudly answer to their tears as they deny, deny. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Conscience is Instinct Bread in the House, by Henry David Thoreau. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Conscience is Instinct Bread in the House. Nothing and thinking propagate the sin by an unnatural breeding, in and in. I say, turn it outdoors, into the moors. I love a life whose plot is simple, and does not thicken with every pimple. A soul so sound, no sickly conscience binds it. That makes the universe no worse than it finds it. I love an earnest soul, whose mighty joy and sorrow are not drowned in a bowl, and brought to life tomorrow. That lives one tragedy, and not seventy. A conscience worth keeping, laughing, not weeping. A conscience wise and steady, and forever ready, not changing with events dealing and compliments. A conscience exercised about large things, where one may doubt. I love a soul not all of wood, predestinated to be good, but true to the backbone, unto itself alone, and false to none, born to its own affairs, its own joys, and own cares, by whom the work which God begun, is finished, and not undone. Taken up where he left off, whether to worship, or to scoff. If not good, why then evil? If not good God, good devil. Goodness, you hypocrite, come out of that. Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. I have no patience toward such conscientious cowards. Give me simple laboring folk, who love their work, whose virtue is a song, to cheer God along. End of Poem. England's sun was slowly setting over hill-tops far away, filling all the land with beauty at the close of one's sad day. And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair. He with steps so slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair. She with bowed head, sad and thoughtful. She with lips so cold and white. Struggle to keep back the murmur. Curfew must not ring to-night. Sexton, Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, with its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls, dark, damp, and cold. I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, at the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Fromwell will not come till sunset, and her lips grew strangely white, as she spoke in husky whispers. Curfew must not ring to-night. Bessie calmly spoke the Sexton. Every word pierced her young heart, like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart. Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower. Every evening, just at sunset, it is told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right. Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew-bell must ring to-night. Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, and within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, at the ringing of the curfew basil underwood must die. And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright. One low murmur faintly spoken, Curfew must not ring to-night. She with quick-step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door, left the old man coming slowly, paths he trod so often before. Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro. As she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray of light, upward still her pale lips saying, Curfew shall not ring to-night. She has reached the topmost ladder, or her hangs the great dark bell, awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. See the ponderous tongue is swinging, it is the hour of curfew now, and the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. While she let it ring, no, never, her eyes flash with sudden light, as she springs and grasps it firmly, Curfew shall not ring to-night. Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, there twixed heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro, and the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, sadly thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell. While the maiden clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white, stilled her frightened heart's wild beating, Curfew shall not ring to-night. It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more, firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done, should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun, light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires with heads of white, tell the children why the curfew did not ring that once at night. O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell, Bessie sees him, and her brow, lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn, and her sweet young face, still haggard with the anguish it had worn, touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. Go, your lover lives, cried Cromwell, curfew shall not ring to-night. Why did they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, all his bright young life before him, neath the darkening English sky? Bessie came with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet, kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, whispered, Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night. When people call this beast to mind they marvel more and more at such a little tale behind, so large a trunk before. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Epitaph for a Romantic Woman by Louise Bogan. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. She has attained the permanence she dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning, untended stalks blow over her, even in swift, like young men running. Always in the heart she loved, others had lived. She heard their laughter. She lies where none has lain before, where certainly none will follow after. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Helen's Song by Philip James Bailey. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. The rose is weeping for her love for Nightingale, and he is flying fast above, to her he will not fail. Already Golden Eve appears, he wings his way along. Ah, look, he comes to kiss her tears, and soothe her with his song. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. He Who Hath Glory Lost by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. He Who Hath Glory Lost, nor hath found any soul to fellow his, among his foes in scorn and wrath, holding to ancient nobleness, that high unconsortable one, his love is his companion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I'm Nobody by Emily Dickinson. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. I'm Nobody. Who are you? Are you Nobody too? Then there's a pair of us. Don't tell. They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody, how public, like a frog, to tell your name to live long day, to an admiring bog. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In the Dark Pine Wood by James Joyce. For LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. In the Dark Pine Wood, I would we lay, in deep cool shadow at noon of day. How sweet to lie there, sweet to kiss, where the great pine forest in Iald is. Thy kiss descending sweeter were, with a soft tumult of thy hair. O unto the pine wood at noon of day, come with me now, sweet love, away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died by Emily Dickinson. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died. The stillness round my form was like the stillness in the air, between the heaves of storm. The eyes around had wrung them dry, and breaths were gathering firm for that last onset, when the king be witness in the room. I willed my keepsakes, signed away what portion of me be assignable. And then it was their interposed a fly, with blue, uncertain stumbling buzz, between the light and me, and then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lazy Men's Song by Pochie. Read for LibriVox.org by Paul Z. Hong Kong. I have got patronage, but am too lazy to use it. I've got land, but am too lazy to farm it. My house leaks, I'm too lazy to mend it. My clothes are torn, I'm too lazy to darn them. I have got wine, but am too lazy to drink. So it's just the same as if my cellar were empty. I've got a harp, but am too lazy to play. So it's just the same as if it had no strings. My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house. I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind. My friends and relatives write me long letters. I should like to read them, but they are such a bother to open. I have always been told that Chi Xu Ye passed his whole life in absolute idleness. But he played a harp and sometimes transmuted metals. So even he was not as lazy as I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Let such pure hate still underprop our love, that we may be each other's conscience, and have our sympathy mainly from thence. We'll want another treat like God's, and all the faith we have in virtue and in truth bestow on either, and suspicion leave to God's below. Two solitary stars, unmeasured systems far between us roll, but by our conscious light we are determined to one pole. What need confound the sphere, love can afford to wait. For it, no hours too late, that witnesses one duty's end, or to another doth beginning lend. It will subserve no use, more than the tints of flowers. Only the independent guest frequents its bowers, inherits its bequest. No speech, though kind, has it. But kinder silence doles unto its mates, by night consoles, by day congratulates. What set the tongue to tongue? What hearth ear of ear? By the decrees of fate from year to year, does it communicate? Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns. No trivial bridge of words, or arch of boldest span, can leap the moat that girds the sincere man. No show of bolts and bars can keep the fulmin' out, or scrape his secret mind who enters with the doubt that drew the line. No water at the gate can let the friendly in, but, like the sun, or all he will, the castle win, and shine along the wall. There's nothing in the world I know that can escape from love. For every depth it goes below, and every height above. It waits as waits the sky, until the clouds go by. That shines serenely on, with an eternal day, alike when they are gone, and when they stay. Implacable is love, foes may be bought or teased from their hostile intent. But he goes unappeased, who is on kindness bent. End of Poem This Recording is in the Public Domain. Why and wherefore set out one day to hunt for a wild negation? They agreed to meet at a cool retreat on the point of interrogation, but the night was dark and they missed their mark, and, driven well nigh to distraction, they lost their ways in a murky maze of utter abtruse abstraction. Then they took a boat and were soon afloat on a sea of speculation, but the sea grew rough in their boat, though tough, was split into an equation. As they flundered about in the waves of doubt rose a fearful hypothesis, who jibbered with glee as they sank in the sea, and the last they saw was this. On a rock-bound reef of unbelief there sat the wild negation, then they sank once more and were washed ashore at the point of interrogation. End of Poem This Recording is in the Public Domain. One moment the boy as he wandered by night, where the far-spreading foam in the moonbeam was white. One moment he caught on the breath of the breeze, the voice of the sisters that sing in the seas. One moment no more, though the boy lingered long, no more might he hear of the mermaiden song, but the pine woods behind him moaned low from the land, and the ripple gushed soft at his feet on the sand. Yet or ever they ceased, the strange sound of their joy had lighted a light in the breast of the boy, and the seeds of a wonder, a splendor to be, had been breathed through his soul from the songs of the sea. End of Poem This Recording is in the Public Domain. Sheep by C. Kenneth Burrow Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage Huddled rain-drenched forlorn they stood, their fleeces blown one way, the wet wind cried in solitude about the failing day. Leaves world below, aloft the sky sagged like a sodden shroud. No stir of life, no pleading cry came from the draggled crowd. Sudden the western portals wide opened on that gaunt fold, then low, a flock beautified, with fleeces dripping gold. End of Poem This Recording is in the Public Domain. Song by John Dunne For LibriVox.org Narrated by Sean McKinley Go and catch a falling star. Get with child a mandrake root, tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the devil's foot. Teach me to hear mermaids singing, or to keep off envy stinging, and find what wind serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights, things invisible to see, ride ten thousand days and nights till age snow-white hairs on thee. Thou, when thou returnst wilt tell me all strange wonders that be filthy, and swear nowhere lives a woman true and fair. If thou findst one, let me know. Such a pilgrimage were sweet, yet do not, I would not go, though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, and last till you write her letter, yet she will be false ere I come to two or three. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. A Summer Night by Elizabeth Stoddard Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica I feel the breath of the summer night, aromatic fire, the trees, the vines, the flowers are a stir with tender desire. The white moths flutter about the lamp, enamored with light, and a thousand creatures softly sing a song to the night. But I am alone, and how can I sing praises to thee? Come night, unveil the beautiful soul that waiteth for me. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Summer Night by Alfred Tennyson Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white. Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk, nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry front. The firefly awakens, awaken thou with me. Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the earth all deny to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow as thy thoughts in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake. So fold thy self-dearest thou, and slip into my bosom, and be lost in me. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Cicero by William Sharpe Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica Breath of the grass, ripple of wandering wind, murmur of tremulous leaves, a moon-beam moving white like a ghost across the plain, a shadow on the road, and high up, high, from the cypress-bow, a long sweet melancholy note, silence, and the topmost spray of the cypress-bow, is still as a wavelet in a pool. The road lies duskily bare, the plain is a misty gloom. Still are the tremulous leaves, scarce a last ripple of wind, scarce a breath of the grass. Hush! The tired wind sleeps. Is it the wind's breath?