 Age by Walter Delamar, read for LibriVox.org by Alana Jordan. This ugly old crone, every beauty she had, when a maid, when a maid, her beautiful eyes, too youthful, too wise, seemed ever to come to so lighten as a home, cold and dull as a stone. In her cheeks, who would guess, cheeks cadaverous as this, once with colors were gay, as the flower on its spray, who would ever believe could bring one to grieve, so much as to make lips bent for love's sake, so thin and so gray, O youth, come away, as she asks in her lone, this old desolate crone. She loves us no more, she is too old to care. For the charms that of yore made her body so fair, past repining, past care, she lives but to bear, one, or two fleeting years, earth's indifference, her tears, have lost now their heat, her hands and her feet, now shake but to be shed, as leaves from a tree, and her poor heart beats on, like a sea, the storm gone. End of poem. The Bibliomaniacs Prayer by Eugene Field, recorded for LibriVox.org by Laurie Ann Walden. Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way, that I may truth's eternal seek. I need protecting care today, my purse is light, my flesh is weak. So banish from my airing heart all baleful appetites and hints of Satan's fascinating art of first editions and of prints. Direct me in some godly walk, which leads away from bookish strife, that I with pious deed and talk may extra-illustrate my life. But if, O Lord, it pleases thee to keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be most notably beset to-day. Let my temptation be a book, which I shall purchase, hold and keep, whereon when other men shall look, they'll wail to know I got it cheap. O, let it such a volume be as in rare copper plates abounds, large paper, clean and fair to see, uncut, unique, unknown to lounge. End of poem. The recording is in the public domain. Ellis Park by Helen Hoyt. Red for LibriVox.org by Cody Logan. Little park that I pass through, I carry off a piece of you every morning, hurrying down to my workday in the town. Carry you for country there, to make the city ways more fair. I take your trees and your breeze, your greenness, your cleanness, some of your shade, some of your sky, some of your calm as I go by. Your flowers to trim, the pavements grim, your space for room in the jostled street, and grass for carpet to my feet. Your fountains take and sweet bird calls to sing me from my office walls. All that I can see I carry off with me. But you never miss my theft, so much treasure you have left. As I find you, fresh at morning, so I find you, home returning, nothing lacking from your grace, all your riches wait in place, for me to borrow, on the morrow. Do you hear this praise of you, little park that I pass through? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Highwayman by Alfred Noist. Head for LibriVox.org by April Galarsa on May 25th, 2007, AprilGalarsa.wordpress.com. The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, and the highwayman came riding, riding, riding. The highwayman came riding, up to the old indoor. He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown-dose skin, they fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh, and he rode with a jeweled twinkle, his pistol butts a twinkle, his rapier hilt a twinkle under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark innyard, and he tapped with his whip on the shutters. But all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there, but the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Beth, the landlord's daughter, plaiting a dark red love-na into her long black hair. And dark in the dark, old innyard a stable wicket creaked, where Tim the Osler listened, his face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay. But he loved the landlord's daughter, the landlord's red-lipped daughter, dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say, When kiss my body, sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, but I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light. Yet if they press me sharply and harry me through the day, then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight. I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way. He rose upright in the stirrups, he scarce could reach her hand, but she loosened her hair in the casement, his face burnt like a brand. As the black cascade of perfume came, tumbling over his breast, and he kissed it's waves in the moonlight, oh sweet black waves in the moonlight, he tugged at his rain in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. He did not come in the dawning, he did not come at noon, and out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, when the road was a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, a red coat troop came marching, marching, marching. King George's men came marching up to the old indoor. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, but they gagged at his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side. There was death at every window, and hell at one dark window. Her best could see through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound her musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast. Now keep good watch, and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say, look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight. I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way. She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good. She rived her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood. They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years. Till now in the stroke of midnight, cold on the stroke of midnight, the tip of one finger touched it, the trigger at least was hers. The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest. Up she stood at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again, for the road lay bare on the moonlight, blank and bare on the moonlight. And the blood in her veins in the moonlight, the robb to her lovers refrained. To-lop, to-lop, and they heard it. The horse hoes ringing clear. To-lop, to-lop, and the distance, were they death that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, the highway man came riding, riding, riding. The red coats looked to their priming. She stood up straight and still, to-lop in the frosty silence, to-lop in the echoing night, nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment. She drew one last deep breath, then her finger moved in the moonlight. Her musket shattered in the moonlight, shattered her breast in the moonlight, and warned him with her death. He turned, he spurred to the west. He did not know who stood, bowed with her head or the musket, drenched with her own red blood. Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear. How best the landlord's daughter, the landlord's black-eyed daughter, had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky. With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high, blood red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red was his velvet coat. When they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway, and he lay in his blood on the highway with a bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night they say, when the wind is in the trees, when the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas, when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor. The highwayman comes riding, riding, riding. The highwayman comes riding up to the old indoor. Over the cobbles he clatters and clings in the dark in yard. He taps his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there? The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Beth, the landlord's daughter, plaiting a dark red love knot into her long black hair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Human Abstract by William Blake, read for LibriVox.org by Andrew Morrison. Pity would be no more if we did not make somebody poor, and mercy no more could be if all were as happy as we. And mutual fear brings peace till the selfish loves increase, then cruelty knits a snare and spreads his baits with care. He sits down with holy fears and waters the ground with tears. Then humility takes its root underneath his foot. Soon spreads the dismal shade of mystery over his head, and the caterpillar and fly feed on the mystery. And it bears the fruit of deceit, ruddy and sweet to eat. And the raven his nest has made in its thickest shade. The gods of the earth and sea sought through nature to find this tree, but their search was all in vain. There grows one in the human brain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Into My Heart on Air That Kills by A. E. Houseman, recorded for LibriVox.org. Into My Heart on Air That Kills from Yon Fark Country Blows. What are those blue-remembered hills? What spires? What farms are those? That is the land of lost content. I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went, and cannot come again. End of poem. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In Memoriam by Mark Twain, read for LibriVox.org. Olivia Susan Clemens died August 18, 1896, aged 24. In a fair valley, oh, how long ago, how long ago, where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines and fruitful fields, and meadows starred with flowers. And clear streams wandered at their idle will. And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces, a dream with painted clouds, and soft airs went whispering with odorous breath. And all was peace in that fair veil, shut from the troubled world, and nameless hamlet drowsed. Hard by, apart, a temple stood, and strangers from the outer world passing noted it with tired eyes. And seeing saw it not. A glimpse of its fair form, an answering momentary thrill, and they passed on, careless and unaware. They could not know the cunning of its make. They could not know the secret shut up in its heart. Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew. They knew that what seemed brass was gold, what marble seemed was ivory. The glories that enriched the milky surfaces, the trailing vines and interwoven flowers, and tropic birds a wing, clothed all in tinted fire. They knew for what they were, not what they seemed. In crustings all of gems, not perishable splendors of the brush. They knew the secret spot where one must stand. They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun. To gather in, unmarred, undimmed, the vision of the feign in all its fairy grace, a fainting dream against the opal sky, and more than this. They knew that in the temples in most place a spirit dwelt, made all of light. For glimpses of it they had caught beyond the curtains when the priests that served the altar came and went. All loved that light and held it dear, that had this partial grace. But the adoring priests, alone who lived by day and night, submerged in all its immortal glow, knew all its power in depth, and could appraise the loss if it should fade and fail and come no more. All this was long ago, so long ago. The light burned on, and they that worshiped it, and they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear, contented lived in its secure possession. Ah, how long ago it was! And then when they were nothing fearing, and God's peace was in the air, and none was prophesying harm, the vast disaster fell. Where stood the temple when the sun went down, was vacant desert when it rose again. Ah, yes, tis ages since it chanced, so long ago it was, that from the memory of the Hamlet folk the light has passed. They scarce believing now, that once it was, or if believing, yet not missing it, and reconciled to have it gone. Not so the priests, oh not so the stricken ones that served it day and night, adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace. They stand yet, where erst they stood, speechless in that dim morning long ago, and still they gazed, as then they gazed, and murmur. It will come again, it knows our pain, it knows, it knows. Ah, surely it will come again. S. L. C. Lake Lucerne, August 18, 1897. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Loveliest of Trees. By A. E. Hausman. Recorded for LibriVox.org. Loveliest of Trees, the cherry now, is hung with bloom along the bow, and stands about the woodland-ride, wearing white for Easter tide. Now of my three-score years and ten, twenty will not come again, and take from seventy springs a score, it only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom, fifty springs are little room, but the woodlands I will go. To see the cherry hung with snow. End of poem. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ode to Lucerne, by Horace. Translated by W. E. H. Forsythe. Read for LibriVox.org by Leon Meyer. Seek not to know Lucerne, the death that waits both you and me. The gods forbid such quest. Don't go and talk with Gypsy's old, and try to get your fortune told. Let's take things for the best. Perchance we long shall feel the blast. Perchance this wintery gale's our last. Be wise, and drink, don't bother. Even as we prayt, time's flying on. So seize the moment, airt has gone. We may not have another. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Sykit, by John Kis. Read for LibriVox.org by Vivien Quan. March 2008 in Hong Kong. O goddess, hear these two list numbers. Run by sweet enforcement, and remain brief dear. And pardon that thy secret should be sown. You went into thy old salt-coated ear. Surely I jammed today? Or did I see the waning psyche with auricant eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly. And on the sudden, fending with surprise, saw two fair creatures, couched side by side, in deepest grass beneath the whispering roof of leaves and chamber blossoms. With that run a-braked it, scarce is spied, mink-hushed, coroutic flowers, fry-green-eyed, blue, silver-white, and body-tearing. They lay calm breathing on the bedded grass, their arms inbreathed, and their penis too. Their lips touched not, but had not bathed you. As you destroyed by salt-handed slumber, and ready-steal-past cases to outnumber, a tender-eyed dome of aurelian love. The winged boy I knew, but who's thou? Oh, happy, happy dove, his psyche true. Oh, latest bone, and lovely vision, far of aurelian pus, fading hierarchy. Farer than Phoebe's sapphire region star, or the spur, emery screw-wong of the sky. Farer than this, though temple-thar has done, no auto-hip with flowers, no virgin choir to make delicious mung upon the midnight hours. No voice, no root, no pipe, no incense-tree from Chen Shuang-seng-sir-ti-ming, no swipe, no growth, no oracle, no heat of pale-mothed profit-dream-ming. Oh, brightest, though too late for antique boughs, too too late for the far-believing liar, when holy with the haughty forest boughs, holy the air, the water, and the fire. Yet even in these days so far retired, from happy parties, thy rousing fangs, fluctuating among the faint olympians, I see and sing by my old eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a mung upon the midnight hours, thy voice, thy root, thy pipe, thy incense-tree from Chen Shuang-seng-sir-ti-ming, thy swine, thy growth, thy oracle, thy heat of pale-mothed profit-dream-ming. Yes, I'll be thy priest, and be well-fanged in some unchallenged region of my mind, where brain-treat thaws, new-grown with present pain, instead of pine, shall murmur in the wind. Far, far out shall this dark-crusted trees, Fledged the white-red mountains, steep by steep. And thereby Jeffers, strings, and birds, and bees, the mosling dryers, shall be loud to sleep. And in the midst of the white quietness, a rosy-sing-tree will adjust, with the weight cherries our working brain, with bars and bears and stars without a name. With all the gardener-fancy-year-quick fan, who-breeding flowers will never breathe the same. And that should be for thee also delight. The sharing thought can win, a bright torch, and a casement open night to let the warm love in. End of point. This recording is in the public domain. Peace, by Charles Dryden, recorded for the bravox.org by Shrutukha. Peace, as a dwelling near a river, where the darkened waters quiver, where the rippling we hear bursting on the pebbly shore, making music soft and clear, forevermore, forevermore. Peace, as a dwelling near a wood, where the cooing pigeons brood, where the sweet-voiced nightingale onto the moon her song doth pour, and the songsters swell, the echoing veil, forevermore, forevermore. Peace, as a dwelling in the soul, that can its hopes and fears control. In silent wood, as cities dain alike, it may be found to dwell. Its dearest home is that within the chastened heart's profoundest cell. Peace, as a dwelling where no more the ear can hear the torrent roar, or list the rippling of the river, as softly it turns up its wave, where nevermore the moon beams quiver within the silent grave. Peace, O thou white-garmented maiden, with the flower-decked head, come, make thy mention in my heart, attend, thou shalt freely rest, and thou shalt soothe each bitter smart that racks the chambers of my breast. End of poem. This recording is in public domain. The Crangle Wangle's Hat by Edward Lear. Read for LibriVox.org by Andrew Macbeth. On the top of the Crumperty Tree the Quangle Wangle sat, but his face you could not see on account of his beaver hat. For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide with ribbons and bibbons on every side, and bells and buttons and loops and lace, so that nobody ever could see the face of the Quangle Wangle Quee. The Quangle Wangle said to himself on the Crumperty Tree, jam and jelly and bread are the best of food for me, but the longer I live on this Crumperty Tree the planer than ever it seems to me that very few people come this way, and that life on the whole is far from gay, said the Quangle Wangle Quee. But there came to the Crumperty Tree Mr. and Mrs. Canary, and they said, did you ever see any spot so charmingly airy? May we build a nest on your lovely hat. Mr. Quangle Wangle grant us that. Oh, please let us come and build a nest of whatever material suits you best, Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee. And besides to the Crumperty Tree came the stork, the duck, and the owl, the snail and the bumble bee, the frog and the fimblefowl, the fimblefowl with a corkscrew leg, and all of them said, we humbly beg we may build our homes on your lovely hat. Mr. Quangle Wangle grant us that. Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee. And the golden grouse came there, and the pobble who has no toes, and the small Olympian bear, and the dong with a luminous nose, and the blue baboon who played the flute, and the orient calf from the land of Toot, and the attery squash and the biscuit bat all came and built on the lovely hat of the Quangle Wangle Quee. And the Quangle Wangle said to himself on the Crumperty Tree, when all these creatures move, what a wonderful noise they'll be. And at night, by the light of the mulberry moon, they danced to the flute of the blue baboon on the broad green leaves of the Crumperty Tree, and all were as happy as happy could be with the Quangle Wangle Quee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The road not taken by Robert Frost, led by Lee Reeboks that orgy by Huan Zhong Zhang. Two rows diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other as just as fair, and having perhaps the better crane, because it was crazy and wanted to wear, though as for that the passing, they had worn them really about the same. And both the morning equally lay, in leaves no step has chosen black. Oh, I kept the first for another day, yet knowing how way lease on two way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence, two rows diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one rest traveled by, and that has made all the difference. This recording is in the public domain. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, led by Lee Reeboks that orgy by Alan Davis Drake. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear, though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay, in leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day, yet knowing how way leads on two way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Chance Godwin. Behold her single in the field, the unsolitary Highland lass, reaping and singing by herself. Stop here or gently pass. Alone she cuts and binds the grain, and sings a melancholy strain. Oh, listen for the veil profound is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever shunt, more welcome notes to weary bands, of travelers and some shady haunt among Arabian sands. A voice so thrilling, Nair was heard in springtime from the cuckoo bird, breaking the silence of the seas among the farthest hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow, for old unhappy far off things and battles long ago? Or is it some more humble lay, familiar matter of today? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain that has been or may be a game? What air the theme the maiden sang as if her song could have no ending? I saw her singing at her work and or the sickle bending. I listened motionless and still, and as I mounted up the hill, the music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tucelia by Ben Johnson. Read for LibriVox.org by Summer Russell. Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine. But might I of jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honoring thee, as giving it a hope that there it could not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, and sensed it back to me. Since when it grows and smells I swear, not of itself, but thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Marguerite by Matthew Arnold. Read for LibriVox.org by Wet Coast. Yes, in the sea of life eniled, with echoing straits between us thrown, dotting the shoreless, watery wild, we mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, and then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon there hallows lights, and there swept by bombs of spring, and in their glens on starry nights, the nightingales divinely sing, and lovely notes from shore to shore, across the sounds and channels pour. O then a longing like to spare is to their farthest cavern sent, for surely once they feel we were, parts of a single continent. Now round us spreads the watery plain, oh, might our marches meet again. Who ordered that their longings fire should be as soon as kindled cooled, who renders vain their deep desire, a god, a god their seventh ruled, and they betwixt their shores to be the unplumbed salt a strangeing see. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Woman's Complaint by Laura Redden. Recorded for LibriVox.org by Shirtigal. I saw myself in the glass today, and I said as I loosened my hair, oh, that my face were a talisman, and he could have it to wear. For there is nothing that I would not give to feather his restless heart, for if his tenderness ever should fail, the glory from life would part. I should not suffer, so if I knew that he missed me any tonight. I wonder if he ever wants me now. I know that it isn't right. I know I am selfish to murmur in doubt. You see, careless or cold? Oh, never. But they tell me that man forgets in an hour, while woman remembers forever. I love him. I love him with all my life, and I give him his choices things. But he puts me into a gilded cage and cripples my budding wings. I want to be all that a woman should be, but he has the narrowest views. I want to work, and he wants me to play, and he tells me to do as I choose. To do as I choose, I would choose to be not a child, to be petted and dressed, but his friend under the terms of an equal trust, respected as well as caressed. He gives me a kiss and he goes away, and that horrible office door shuts out the face and the voice in the hand that charmed him a moment before. And if he's troubled or sad or wronged, he tells me never a word. He likens me into a summer flower or a beautiful singing bird. If he'd teach me, I know I could learn to work with him side by side, and then I could hold my head up high with a sterling womanly pride, and so I am jealous of him I love. Who jealous his jealous can be for his lordly aims and his growing plans keep him away from me, and I sit away by myself tonight, dropping the bitterest tears that have moistened the cheeks that he left unkissed to whiten with cruel fears. End of poem, this recording's in the public domain. The Woman I Met by Thomas Hardy, read for LibriVox.org by Debbie Trencher. A stranger I threaded, sunken-hearted, a lamplit crowd, and anon there passed me, a soul departed, who mutely bowed. In my far-off youthful years I had met her, full pulsed, but now, no more life's debtor. Onward she slid, in a shroud that furs have hid. Why do you trouble me, dead woman? Trouble me? You whom I knew when warm and human? How would be that you quitted earth and are yet upon it? Is to any who ponder on it past being read? Still, it is so, she said. These were my haunts and my olden sprightly, hours of breath. Here I went, tempting frail youth nightly to their death. But you deemed me chaste, me, a tinseled sinner. How thought you one, with pureness in her? Could pace this street, eyeing some man to greet? Well, your very simplicity made me love you. Mid such town dross, till I set not heaven itself above you, who grew my cross. For you'd only nod, despite how I sighed for you. So you tortured me, who feign would have died for you? What I suffered, then, would have paid for the sins of ten. Thus, when the days I feared you despised me, to fling me a nod, each time, no more, till love chastised me. As with a rod, that a fresh, bland boy of no assurance should fire me with passion beyond endurance, while others all, I hated, and loathed their call. I said, it is his mother's spirit hovering around, to shield him, maybe. I used to fear it, as still I found my beauty left no least impression, and remnants of pride withheld confession, of my true trade by speaking, so I delayed. I said, perhaps with a costly flower, he'll be beguiled. I held it, in passing you one late hour, to your face, you smiled. Keeping step with a throng, though you did not see there, a single one that rivaled me there. Well, it's all past, I died in the lock at last. So walk the dead and I, together, the quick among, elbowing our kind of every feather, slowly and long, yay, long and slowly, that a phantom should stalk there, with me seemed nothing strange, and talk there. That winter night, by flaming jets of light, she showed me wands who feared their call time, guessing their lot. She showed me her sword that cursed their fall time, and that did not, till suddenly murmured she, now tell me, why asked you never, ear death befell me, to have my love, much as I dreamt thereof? I could not answer, and she, well-weeding, all in my heart, said, God, your guardian, kept our fleeting forms apart, sighing and drawing her furs around her, over the shroud that tightly bound her. With wafts as from clay, she turned and thinned away. This is the end of the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Rinkles, by Walter Savage-Lander, read for LibriVox.org by Corey Samuel. When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face, it was when some fifty long had settled there, and intermarried and branched off a wide, she threw herself upon her couch and wept. On this side hung her head, and over that, listlessly, she let fall the faithless brass that made the men as faithless. But when you found them, or fancied them, and would not hear that they were only vestiges of smiles, or the impression of some amorous hair, astray from cloistered curls and rosy at band, which had been lying there all night, perhaps, upon a skin so soft. No, no, you said. Sure, they are coming, yes, I'll come, I hear. Well, and what matters it, while thou art too?