 Nephilitia, by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Red for LibriVox.org, by Clarica. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn, through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, paladin pink is the palm of the flag-flower that flickers, with fear of the flies as they float. Are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, these that we feel in the blood of our blushes, that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at a peel of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith-recreation. Gaunt is the gas-slayest glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the bombs of beatified blissed, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit, or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses, sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be. While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod, made meek as a mother, whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, as they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty, beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of the blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nephiledia by Algannon Charles Swinburne, read for LibriVox.org by DailyBab. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine. Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float. Are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic, miraculous moonshine? These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at the appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future that pale with the promise of pride in the past, blushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith recreation, gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temple of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the bams of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses. Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk of monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod, made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss bringing bulk of a bam breathing baby. As they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God, blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of the blue into the black is the scheme of the skies, and their Jews are the wine of the bloodshed of things, till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Nephelydia by Algernon Charles Swinburne, read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, these that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat. Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith recreation, gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, as they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies grown green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nephilitia by Algernon Charles Swinburne Red for LibriVox.org by David Butler From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic, miraculous moonshine, these that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theater thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future, than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and ray the recreation, gaunt as the gasliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, drained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error bathed in the bombs of beatified bliss, beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the merc and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope and the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-springing bulk of a bomb-breathing baby as they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of the blue and to the black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennels of kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nephaledia by Algon and Charles Winburne, read for Librox.org by Ezwa in October 2007. Through the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn, through unnotable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, these that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theater throng that appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future, then pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wrath-recreation, gount as the ghastless of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. For the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the sinews, yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that subsins the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangle tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the bridge of man's rapiers, resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with a bliss-breaking bulk of a bomb-breathing baby as they grope through the graveyard of creeds and the skies growing greener to groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bound to beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a form that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the hard beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Are the looks of our lovers that lustrally lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, these that we fill in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a seardre throng that appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and rates recreation, gout as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleams with the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the synos yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the bombs of beatified bliss, beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses. Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a bomb-breeding baby. As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green are the groan from the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of blue into black is the scheme of disguise, and their do's are the wine of the bloodshed of things, till the darkling desire of the light shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine Paladin pink is the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine. These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theater thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith recreation, gaunt as the gas-list of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the bombs of beatified bliss beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark to the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodious mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a bomb-breathing baby, as they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of the blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. End of Pome. This recording is in the public domain. Nephilitia by Algernon Charles Swinburne, read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine pallid in pink is the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float. Are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine. These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an act as a polled vegetation, thainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith recreation, gaunt as the ghastliest glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the mercant, monotonous music of memory melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of the heroes bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod, made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, as they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer, out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nephidelia by Algernon Charles Swinburne, read for LibriVox.org by Mike Buckley. From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, pallid and pink as the palm of the flag flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine. These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theater thronged at a peel of an actor's appalled agitation, feign or with fear of the fires of the future then pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance and wraith recreation, gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast, nay for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch of the temples of terror, strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the bombs of beatified bliss, beatific itself by Beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit are sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses, sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. World is the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod. Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a bomb-breathing baby, as they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Black is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of blue and to black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things. Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. Nephilitia by Algernon Charles Swinburne RedfordLieberVox.org by Mark Smith From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, pallid in pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, these that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat, thicken and thrill as a theater thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, fated with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past, flushed with a famishing fullness of fever that rends with radiance and wreath recreation, gaunt as the ghastly sub glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast. Nephilitia by Algernon Charles Swinburne Nephilitia by Algernon Charles Swinburne as the sinews that strenuous was dry for the dead who is dumb at the dust heaps of death. Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, bathed in the balms of bedified bliss, batific itself by bettitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses, sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh. Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses. Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is stark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild as the murk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, while the hope in the heart of the hero is bruised by the preach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod. Babe Meek is a mother whose bosom beats bound with a bliss-springing bulk of a balm-breathing baby as they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green and aggrown for the grimness of God. Blank as the book of this bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer. Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dues are the wine of the bloodshed of things, till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from that hunt that is harried the kennel of kings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.