 Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake The frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by in wind. The outlets cry came loud, and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude which suits obtruser musings. Save that at my side, my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. It is calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs and vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See, hill and wood, this populous village, see and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings-on of life, inaudible as dreams. The thin blue flame lies in my low-burned fire and quivers not. Only that film, which flutters on the great, still flutters there, the soul unquiet thing. Me thinks its motion, in this hush of nature, gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps, and freaks the idling spirit by its own mood, interprets, everywhere echo or mirror seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But oh, how oft, how oft at school, with most believing mind, presageful have I gazed upon the bars, to watch the fluttering stranger, and his oft with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower, whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang from morn to evening, all the hot fair day, so sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams, and so I, brooding all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye fixed with mixed study on my swimming book. Save, if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsman, or aunt, or sister, more beloved, my playmate when we both were clothed alike, my dear babe that sleepest cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, fill up the interspaced vacancies and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe, so beautiful, it thrills my heart with tender gladness, thus to look at thee, and think that thou shalt learn far other lore, and in far other scenes, for I was reared in the great city, pent mid-cloister's dim, and saw not lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds which image in their bulk, both lakes and shores and mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language, which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shall mold thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothe the general earth with greenness, or the red breast sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eave-drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coldridge. Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Cooper. January 27, 2008 in Covington, Louisiana. The frost performs at secret ministry, unhelped by any wind. The owlets cry, came loud, and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude, which suits obtrusive musings. Save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. Tis calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs in vex's meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See, hill and wood, this populous village. See and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams, that thin blue flame lies on my labyrinth fire, and quivers not. Only that film which fluttered on the great still flutters there, the soul on quiet thing. He thinks its motion in this hush of nature, gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit by its own moods and terpets. Everywhere echo a mirror seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But, oh, how oft, how oft at school, with most believing mind, presageful have I gazed upon the bars, to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower, whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang from morning to evening all the hot fair day, so sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following mourn, awed by the stern perceptor's face. Mine eye fixed with mixed study on my swimming book, save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance. And still my heart leaped up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face. Townsmen are aunt or sister more beloved, my playmate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleep is cradled by my side, whose gentle breathing is heard in this deep calm, fill up the indisperse vacancies and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe, so beautiful it thrills my heart with tender gladness thus to look at thee, and think that thou shalt learn far other lure, and in far other scenes. For I was reared in the great city, pent mid-cloister's dim, and saw not lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shall wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds which image in their bulk both lakes and shores and mountain crag. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that internal language, which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself, great universal teacher. He shall mold thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clove the general earth with greenness, or the red-breasts sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow and the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the night-datch smokes in the sun-thaw. Whether the eavesdrops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge The frost performs its secret ministry unhelped by an wind. The owlet's cry came loud, and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude which suits abstruse amusings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. Tis calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs and vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See, hill, and wood, this populous village. See, and hill, and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams. The thin blue flame lies on my low-burnt fire and quivers not. Only that film which fluttered on the great still flutters there, the soul-unquiet thing. Me thinks its motion in this hush of nature gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit by its own moods' interprets, everywhere echo or mirror seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But oh, how oft, how oft at school with most believing mind, presageful I have gazed upon the bars, to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft with unclosed lids already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang from morn to evening all the hot fair day, so sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear, most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, my eye fixed with mixed-study on my swimming-book. Save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsmen, or aunt, or sister more beloved, my playmate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, fill up the interspersed vacancies, and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe so beautiful, it thrills my heart with tender gladness, thus to look at thee, and think that thou shalt learn far other law, and in far other scenes, for I was reared in the great city, pent mid-cloisters dim, and saw nought lovely, but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds, which image in their bulk both lakes and shores and mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shall mould thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothes the general earth with greenness, or the red breast sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh-thatch smokes in the sun-thor, whether the eave-drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Colleridge, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. The frost performs its secret ministry unhelped by unwind. The outlets cry came loud and hark, again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude which suits obstrucer musings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. Tis calm indeed. So calm that it disturbs and vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See, hill and wood, this populous village, see and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams. The thin blue flame lies on my low-burned fire, and quivers not. Only that film, which fluttered on the great, still flutters there, the soul-unquiet thing. Me thinks its motion in this hush of nature gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit by its own moods interprets, everywhere echo or mirror seeking of itself and makes a toy of thought. But, oh, how oft, how oft, at school, with most believing mind, presageful I have gazed upon the bars to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft, with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang from morn to evening, all the hot fair day. So sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I till the soothing things I dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, my eye fixed with mixed study on my swimming-book, save if the door half-opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsmen or aunt, or sister more beloved, my playmate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings heard in this deep calm fill up the interspersed vacancies and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe so beautiful it thrills my heart with tender gladness, thus to look at thee, and think that thou shalt learn far other lore, and in far other scenes, for I was reared in the great city, pent mid-cloister's dim, and saw not lovely but the sky and stars, but thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds, which image in their bulk both lakes and shores, and mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shall mold thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether some are clothed the general earth with greenness, or the red breast sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eave drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, read for LibriVox.org by J. Seguan, Montreal January 2008. The frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry came loud and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude, which suits abstruser musings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. This calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs and vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See hill and wood, this populous village, see and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, in audible streams. The thin blue flame lies on my low-burned fire, and quivers not. Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, still flutters there. The soul on quiet thing. Me thinks its motion and this hush of nature give its dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit by its own mood, interprets everywhere, echo one mirror, seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But oh how I have how oft, how oft at school with the most believing mind, presageful have I gazed upon the bars to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower whose bells, the poor man's only music, ran from warn to evening, all the hot fair day, so sweetly that is stirred and how hounded me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear, most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gates die, till the soothing things I dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep plunge my dreams, and so I brooded, all the following mourn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, my eyes, fixed with mixed study on my swimming book. Save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsmen or aunt, or sister more beloved, my playmate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleep is cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings hurt in this deep calm, fill up the interspersed vacancies, and momentary pauses of the thoughts. My babe's so beautiful, it thrills my heart with tender gladness, thus to look at thee, and think that thou shalt learn far other lore, and in far other scenes. For I was reared in the great city, pent mid-coisters dim, and saw not lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds which image in their bulk, both lakes and shores, and mountain cracks. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language, which thy God, others, who from eternity, doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shalt mold thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothes, the general earth, with greenness, or the red-breasted and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple tree, while the night thatched smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eavesdrops fall heard only in the trenches of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Caldridge. Read for LibriVox.org. From Braille by Merrill in Western New York, February 2008. The frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by a wind. The outlets cry, came loud and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude which suits obstrucer musings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. Tis calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs and vexes meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, this populous village, sea and hill, and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams, the thunders of the thin blue flame, lies on my low, burnt fire, and quivers not. Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, still flutters there, the sole, unquiet thing, me thinks its motion in this hush of nature, gives it dim sympathies with me, who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks, the idling spirit by its own moods interprets everything. Everywhere, echo or mirror, seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But oh, how oft, how oft, at school, with most believing mind, presageful, have I gazed upon the bars to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft, with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace. And the old church tower, whose bells the poor man's only music rang from morn till evening, all the hot, fair day, so sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear, most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye fixed with mixed study on my swimming book, save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved my playmate. And so I gazed upon when we both were clothed alike, dear babe, that sleepest, cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings heard in this deep calm fill up the interspersed vacancies, and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe, so beautiful. It thrills my heart with tender gladness thus to look at thee and think that thou shalt learn far other lore, and in far other scenes, for I was reared in the great city, pant mid-coisters dim, and saw not lovely, but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores beneath the clouds, which image in their bulk, both lakes and shores and mountain crabs, so shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shall mold thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothes the general earth with greenness or the red breast sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eave drops fall hard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles quietly shining to the quiet moon, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. The Frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by an wind. The Owl Let's Cry came loud, and Hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude which suits obstrucer musings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. It is calm indeed, so calm that it disturbs and vex his meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See hill and wood, this populous village, see and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams. The thin blue flame lies on my low-burnt flier, and quivers not. Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, still flutters there, the soul-unquiet thing. Me thinks its motion in this hush of nature gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks, the idling spirit by its own moods interprets, everywhere echo or mirror seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But oh, how oft, how oft at school, with most believing mind, presageful, have I gazed upon the bars to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft with unclosed lids, already had I dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower, whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang from morn till evening, all the hot, fair day, so sweetly that they stirred, and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear most like articulate sounds of things to come. So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, my eye fixed with mixed study on my swimming-book, save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face, townsman or aunt or sister, more beloved my playmate when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe that sleepest cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, fill up the interspersed vacancies and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe, so beautiful, it thrills my heart with tender gladness, thus to look at thee, and think that thou shall learn far other law, and in far other scenes, for I was reared in the great city, pent mid-cloisters dim, and saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores, beneath the clouds which image in their bulk both lakes and shores and mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language, which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, the great teacher, he shall mould thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothes of the general earth with greenness, or the red breast, sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow, on the bare branch of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eave drops fall, heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Federman. The frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by in wind. The owlets cry came loud, and hark again, loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude, which suits obstrucermusings, save that at my side my cradled infant slumbers peacefully. Tis calm indeed, so calm it disturbs in vex's meditation with its strange and extreme silentness. See hill and wood, this populous village. See and hill and wood, with all the numberless goings on of life, inaudible as dreams. The thin blue flame lies on my low-burnt fire, and quevers not. Only that film, which fluttered on the great, still flutters there. The soul-unquiet thing. Me thinks its motion in this hush of nature gives it dim sympathies with me who live, making it a companionable form, whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit. By its own moods interprets everywhere, echo or mirror seeking of itself, and makes a toy of thought. But, oh, how oft, how oft at school with most believing mind presigethal have I gazed upon the bars to watch that fluttering stranger, and as oft with unclosed lids, already I had dreamt of my sweet birthplace, and the old church tower, whose bells the poor man's only music, rang from morn to evening, all the hot, fair day, so sweetly that they stirred and haunted me with a wild pleasure, falling on my ear, most like articulate sounds of things to come. So I gazed, till the soothing things I dreamt lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams. And so I brooded all the following morn, awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine I fixed with mixed study on my swimming book. Save if the door half opened, and I snatched a hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up, for still I hoped to see the stranger's face. Townsmen, or aunt, or sister, more beloved, my playmate, when we both were clothed alike. Dear babe, that sleep is cradled by my side, whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, fill up the interspersed vacancies and momentary pauses of the thought. My babe, so beautiful, it thrills my heart, with tender gladness, thus to look at thee and think that thou shalt learn far other lore, and in far other scenes. For I was reared in the great city, pet mid-cloister's dim, and saw not lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze by lakes and sandy shores beneath the clouds, which image in their bulk both lakes and shores and mountain crags. So shalt thou see and hear the lovely shapes and sounds intelligible of that eternal language, which thy God utters, who from eternity doth teach himself in all and all things in himself. Great universal teacher, he shall mold thy spirit and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, whether summer clothes the general earth with greenness, or the red breasts sit and sing betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch smokes in the sun-thaw, whether the eave drops fall heard only in the trances of the blast, or if the secret ministry of frost shall hang them up in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.