 After The Resurrection by Lucy Larkham Red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok It was the morning, twilight gray, the dawn, but not the perfect day. Jesus once more on earth was seen, mysterious beauty in his mean. No earthly shelter held him now. He came, he went, non-questioned how. He walked among the sons of men, withdrawn at will, from mortal ken. He died, he rose, the Son of God, a spirit form, this earth-road trod. To all the world beside unknown, he showed himself unto his own. He met them in their walks. He came, where they were gathered in his name. He breathed on them, and said, I give to you this new life that I live. The thought of him made waking sweet, somewhere ere do fall. We may meet a hope shone through the rising ray. Guide us, he may walk today, and our illumined eyes will see. Through grateful tears, that it is he, though he but comes to disappear, while we are whispering. He is here, tender and dear, those twilight days, a rainbow gleam, through cloudy haze. While dimly, they began to see, glory that should there after be. He loved those chosen ones, his own, yet must they learn that not alone, for their small group, he lived and died. But for a world of souls beside, like children, they were taught to spell his truth, until they knew it well. When they could read his words aright, he vanished from their mortal sight. Vanished from sight, they know him now, him to whom every knee must bow. The ray is blended with the sun, behold him, Christ and God are one. This recording is in the public domain. The Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary by Adam of St. Victor, died 1146, translated by Leon Gautier, 1832 to 1897, read for LibriVox.org. Gabriel sent from heaven to Cary as Christ's faithful Emma Cary greetings to the Blessed Mary, sacred words with her rehearsed. Good and sweet the word he taketh, as he in her chamber speaketh, and of Eva av maketh, having ease named thus reversed. Comfort gives he fear dispelling by the Holy Ghost in dwelling, thee the highest shadow veiling, thou saith he shall bear the Lord. Be it so, by her was spoken to his handmaid by this token, let my virgin seal unbroken be according to thy word. As that promise thus declareeth, the incarnate word appeareth, but the Virgin ever shareeth still intact virginity. Such a birth no mother showeth, she who mortal man there knoweth, pain nor labor undergoeth when she bears her progeny. Of a wonder new thou hearest, have but faith till then be clearest. This shoes latcheth, if thou nearest, thou art powerless to untie. Great the lesson is, none higher, in the bush and in the fire, with feet shod let none draw nigher, lest he come unworthily. The dry rod, without a shower, in new manner, through new power, fruit produced as well as flour, so a maid hath borne a son. Was it be that fruit for ever, fruit of joy of sorrow never, had he tasted its sweet savor, Adam near have been undone. Jesus gentle as none other, holy son of holy mother, king of heaven, is as our brother to a manger cradle brought. May he, thus for our salvation borne, affect our guilt's purgation, seeing that our occupation of this earth is risk with God he painted side, and let the enlarged captives walk about. For though a deluge be it to work without, secure within we've no concern for that. And all the nursery is error-rat. Not on the rug, a space of oaken boards, a firmer footing for the crew affords. Softly, my Betsy, lest your fervor harm'd the extreme frailness of a leg or arm. Your limbs so often and so rudely tossed and rattled down, no wonder some be lost beyond the aid of glue. What skill did cram into the hold vermillion-hatted ham and shem, with the green top-nut and the slim contours of Japheth? Noah somewhat grim with buttons, and his consort after him. The wives are at the bottom, dear, but now come the black pig and terracotta cow. Three foxes, this a purple collar round his rigid neck, proclaims the faithful hound. The birds are not so nice. Tradition fails to account for such a quantity of quails. But the old weary crow that flew and flew away from Noah has come back for you. Where is the dove? For if my merry speak the truth there was a dove, and in his beak the olive leaves he plucked upon the day, when, as you know, the waters ebbed away. Who perched on Noah's window with pink feet, and without whom no ark is thought complete. Where is the missing dove? For now I see standing or prone the whole menagerie, and the rain stopped without, and all above beams the bed-nignet sky, and still no dove, of the same beautiful fact the feathered proof. Why here, upon the ripples of the roof, here is your truant painted, to abide when shim and ham are scattered far wide, and all the beasts are broke to brood with furl'd pacific wings over the new-washed world. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. Beginning my studies by Walt Whitman, read for LibberVox.org by Chad Horner from Ballamoney, County Hunter, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Beginning my studies the first step pleased me so much, the mere fact, consciousness, these forms, the power of motion, the least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love, the first step I say, owed me and pleased me so much. I have hardly gone and hardly wished to go any farther but stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs. The brief visit by Walt Mason. Read for LibberVox.org by Dale Grossman. I won't be long in this veil of tears, my works may run for a few more years, but even that is a risky bet, and the sports are hedging already yet. At morning a jant feels gay and nice, and evening finds him upon the ice, with his folded hands and long white gown, and toes turned up, and his plans turned down. So viewing this sad uncertainty, and hearing the wash of the dead man's sea, I want to chortle the best I can, and try to cheer up my fellow man. To make a fellow forget his care, and make him laugh when he wants to swear, is as much as a poet can hope to do, whose lyre is twisted and broken too. This recording is in the public domain. Change by John Dunn. Read for LibberVox.org by Chad Horner, situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland. Although thy hand and faith and good works, too, have sealed thy love which nothing should undo, yea, though thy fall back, that apostasy confirmed thy love, yet much, much I fear thee. Women are like the arts, forced unto to none. And to all searchers, unprized of unknown. If I have caught a bird and let him fly, another foiler, using these means as I, may catch the same bird. And as these things be, women are made for men, not him nor me. Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please. Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these, be bound to one man, and in nature, then, idly make them after, to endure, than men? There are clogs, not their own, if a man be chained to a galley, yea, the galley's free. Who hath applied land, cast all his seed-corn there, and yet allows his ground, more corn, should bear. Though Danubie into the sea must flow, the sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Poe, by nature which give it, this liberty. Thy lovest, but oh, canst thou love it, and me? Likeness glues love, and if that thou so do, to make us like and love must I change, too. More than thy hate, I hate it. Rather let me allow her change, than change as oft as she, and so not teach, but force my opinion to love not anyone, nor everyone. To live in one land is captivity. To run all countries a wild rugray, waters sink soon if in one place they bide, and in the vast sea are more purified. But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this never look back, but the next bank do kiss, then they are purist. Change is the nursery of music, joy, life, and eternity. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Comfort by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, read for LibriVox.org by Scott Paine. Speak low to me, my saviour, low and sweet. From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, lest I should fear and fall and miss thee so. Who art not missed by any that entreat? Speak to Moa as to marry at thy feet, and if no precious gums my hands bestow, let my tears drop like amber while I go. In reach of thy divinest voice complete, in humanist affection thus ensued to lose the sense of losing, as a child who songbird seeks the wood for evermore, is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth, till, sinking on her breast, love reconciled, he sleeps the faster that he wept before. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Days to Calm by Midora C. Addison, read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. Now shall I store my soul with silent beauty. Beauty of drifting clouds and mountain heights, beauty of sun-splashed hills and shadowed forests, beauty of dawn and dusk and star-swept nights. Now shall I fill my heart with quiet music, song of the wind across the pine-clad hill, song of the rain and ferrer than all music, call of the thrush, when twilight woods are still. So shall the Days to Calm be filled with beauty, bright with the promise caught from eastern skies. So shall I see the stars when night is darkest, still hear the thrush's song when music dies. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Fate by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Read for LibriVox.org by Toby Hirsch. Deep in the man sits fast his fate. To mold his fortunes mean or great. Unknown to Cromwell as to me was Cromwell's measure or degree. Unknown to him as to his horse. If he then his groom be better or worse. He works, plots, fights in rude affairs. With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares. Till late he learned through doubt and fear. Broad England harbored not his peer. Obeying time, the last to own the genius from its cloudy throne. For the provision is allied unto the things so signified. Or say, the foresight that awaits is the same genius that creates. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. A football player by Edward Cracraft LaFroy. Read for LibriVox.org. If I could paint you friend, as you stand there, guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed, watching the tortured bladder slide and glide under the twinkling feet, arms bare, head bare, the breeze at trample through crowed tufts of hair, red brown in face, and rudder having spied a wildly foaming, breaking from the side, aware of him, of all else unaware. If I could lean you as you leap and fling, your weight against his passage like a wall, clutch him and color him and rudely cling for one brief moment till he falls, you fall. My sketch would have what art can never give, sinew and breath and body it would live. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. A glimpse of his face by Lucy Larkham. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. I have seen what it may be to live. O God, can it be that thou in thy fullness wilt give thyself unto me? Even here, in my everyday round, thy face may I meet. May the sod I am treading be found, a path for thy feet. If this be not so, then in vain am I living at all. But thy beckoning summons his plain, thy awakening call. Soul, rouse thee and lift up thine eyes, for the sun is arisen, yet the seed and the frozen earth lies like a spirit in prison. God sends thee to visit through shade, hidden germs of his love, to shine with his warmth whilst thou made, as he shineth above. Yea, thou, if escaped from earth's night, art alive from thy root with his freshness, a plant of his light, a stem for his fruit. O great humbling vision to see, in our weakness his power, a gleam of his radiance to be, his planting, his flower, to grow with these fair growths of his, the cultured, the wild, to breathe out the breath of his bliss from his bosom, his child. O vision of God, stir within unto heavenly birth, shine, Christ, through the midnight of sin on our souls and the earth. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Good Samaritan by Henry Lawson Read for LibriVox.org by Son of the Exiles The Good Samaritan He comes from out the ages dim, the Good Samaritan. I somehow never pictured him a fat and jolly man, but one who'd little joy to glean and little coin to give, a sad-faced man and lank and lean, who found it hard to live. His eyes were haggard in the drought, his hair was iron gray, his dusty gown was patch no doubt, where we patch pants today. His faded turban too was torn, but darned and folded neat, and legs of desert sand had worn the sandals on his feet. It'd been a fool, perhaps, and would have prospered had he tried, but he was one who never could pass by the other side. An honest man whom men called soft while laughing in their sleeves, no doubt in business ways he oft had fallen amongst thieves. And I suppose by track and tent and other ancient ways, he drank and fought and loved and went the pace in his young days, and he had known the bitter year when love and friendship fail. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that he had been in jail. A silent man whose passion slept, who had no friends or foes, a quiet man who always kept his hopes and sorrows close, a man who very seldom smiled and one who could not weep, be it for death of wife or child, or sorrow still more deep. But sometimes when a man would rave of wrong as sinners do, he'd say to cheer and make him brave, I've had my troubles too. They might be twitted by the birds and breathed high heaven through. There's beauty in those world-old words. I've had my sorrows too. And if he was a married man as many are that roam, I guess that good Samaritan was rather glum at home, impatient when a child would fret and strict at times and grim. The man whose kinsmen never yet appreciated him. How be it in a study-brown he had for all we know, his own thoughts as he journeyed down the road to Jericho, and pondered as we puzzle yet on tragedies of life, and maybe he was deep in debt and parted from his wife. And so by chance there came that way, it reads not like romance. The truest friends on earth today, they mostly come by chance. He saw a stranger left by thieves, saw hurt and like to die. He also saw, my heart believes, the others pass him by. Perhaps that good Samaritan knew Levite well and prized. He lifted up the wounded man and sat him on his beast, and took him on towards the inn all Christ-like unawares, still pondering perhaps on sin and virtue and his cares. He bore him in and fixed him right, helped by the local drunk, and whined and oiled him well all night and thought beside his bunk. And on the morrow ere he went he left a quid and spoke unto the host in terms which meant, look after that poor bloke. He must have known them at the inn, they must have known him too. Perhaps on that same track he'd seen some other sick mate through. For what so ere thou spendest more? The parable is plain. I will repay, he told the host, when I return again. He seemed to be a good sort too, the boss of that old pub, as even now there are a few at shanties in the scrub. The good Samaritan jogged on through Canaan's dust and heat, and pondered over various schemes and ways to make ends meet. He was no Christian understand, for Christ had not been born. He journeyed later through the land to hold the priests to scorn, and tell the world of certain men, like that Samaritan, and preach the simple creed again, man's duty, man to man. Once on a time there lived a man, but he has lived all way, and that gaunt good Samaritan is with us here today. He passes through the city streets, unnoticed and unknown. He helps the sinner that he meets. His sorrows are his own. He shares his tucker on the track, when things are at their worst, and often shouts in bars out back for souls that are a thirst. Today I see him staggering down the blazing water course, and making for the distant town with a sick man on his horse. He'll live while nations find their graves, and mortals suffer pain, when colour rules and whites are slaves, and savages again. And after all is past and done, he'll rise up the last man, from tending to the last but one, the good Samaritan. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Hangman at Home by Carl Sandberg Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson What does a hangman think about when he goes home at night from work? When he sits down with his wife and children for a cup of coffee and a plate of ham and eggs, do they ask him if it was a good day's work and everything went well, or do they stay off some topics and kill about the weather, baseball, politics, and the comic strips in the papers and the movies? Do they look at his hands when he reaches for the coffee or the ham and eggs? If the little one says, Daddy, playhorse, here's a rope, does he answer like a joke? I've seen enough rope for today. Or does his face light up like a bonfire of joy, and does he say, it's a good and dandy world we live in? And if a white-faced moon looks in through a window where a baby girl sleeps and the moon gleams mixed with baby ears and baby hair, the hangman, how does he act then? It must be easy for him. Anything is easy for a hangman, I guess. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Harmony in Unlikeness by Charles Lamb, 1775 to 1834. Read for LibriVox.org. By Enfield Lanes and Winchmore's Verdant Hill, Two lovely games cheer my lonely walk. The fair Maria, as a vestal stale, and Emma Brown exuberant in talk. With soft and lady-speech the first applies the mild correctives that to grace belong to her redundant friend, who her defies with jest and mad discourse and bursts of song. O differing pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, what music from your happy discord rises, while your companion hearing each and seeing, nor this nor that, but both together prizes. This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, that harmonies may be in things unlike. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I had a little bird. Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. I had a little bird and its name was Anza, I opened a window and it flew Anza. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Impromptu. By Anacora Mawet. Read for LibriVox.org by Kay Taylor, February 20, 2020, www.tla.wapshotpress.org. Impromptu. Written on a visiting card in the absence of the lady to whom it was addressed, by Anacora Mawet. Mary, thou art not here, yet all around, breathes of thy soft and gentle influence, the flowers in sweet profusion that abound, the birds, books, pictures, charming soul and sense, all speak of woman's tender love and care, and whisper thy pure spirit lingers here. In, as that charmed stone, which oft of your Apollo's gifted lyre at Noonday bore, gave sweetly forth the same melodious tone, and woke to music when that lyre was gone. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. In Time of Pestilence, 1593, by Thomas Nash. Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. The dew, farewell, earthed bliss. This world, uncertain is, fond our life's lustful joys, death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Rich men, trust not in wealth. Gold cannot buy you health. Physic himself must feed. All things to end are made. The plague, full swift, goes by. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour. Brightness falls from the air. Queens have died, young and fair. Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Strength stoops unto the grave. Worms feed on Hector Brave. Swords may not fight with fate. Earth still holds oak per gate. Come, come, the bells do cry. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Wit with his wantonness tasteth death's bitterness. Hell's executioner hath no ears for to hear. What vain art can reply. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Haste therefore each degree to welcome destiny. Heaven is our heritage. Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky. I am sick. I must die. Lord have mercy on us. And the poem, this recording, is in the public domain. Genie with a Light Brown Hair by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson. I dream of Genie with a light brown hair. Born like a vapor on the summer air. I see her tripping where the bright streams play. Happy as the daisies that dance on her way. Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour. Many were the blind birds that warbled them o'er. Oh, I dream of Genie with a light brown hair. Floating like a vapor on the soft summer air. I long for Genie with a day dawn smile. Radiant in gladness. Warm with winning guile. I hear her melodies like joys gone by. Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die. Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain. Wailing for the lost one that comes not again. Oh, I long for Genie and my heart vows low. Never more to find her where her bright waters flow. I sigh for Genie, but her light forms strayed far from the fond hearts round her native glade. Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown. Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone. Now the nodding wildflowers may wither on the shore, while her gentle fingers will cull them no more. Oh, I sigh for Genie with a light brown hair. Floating like a vapor on the soft summer air. flunk open are the forest portals sickle-shaped. The king of midday comes on charger velvet-drinked. The sun stays his career to see him canter by. The barrier of the clouds saluting rears on high the flying standard. Mountains stretch themselves and yawn. But from the minstery belfry to the grassy lawn the duke of bells sends down his rile leech to greet on floods of sound a carpet spread before his feet. Shading with hand his eyes, the king of midday peers above, then up at the wall woven out of air-careers. What is his path? Of tones the tumult billowing. The breathless sultry air above awaits the king. Hark! Jubilant name of horses on the wall above. Lord welcomes mighty lord in loyalty and love. Then riding round the tower the pair of princes hold in muster all the world below their feet unrolled, while bells storm around them. Flags of winds around them sway and nobles majesty the busy working day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I sing to salute the sun's bright beams, the blossoms, the breezes and pearling streams, because of the dew that gleams on the flowers, and the birds that whisper of love in bowers, because on the chalice the butterfly's rock, and humming the bees to the rivulet flock, and because with the raptures of love I am blessed, hence sing I so sweetly the joys of my breast. Why singst thou so tenderly night and gale say, in the zeffers of echoing twilight gray, because the bright sun bids adieu to the day, and life in complainings dies gently away, because the pale heaven no longer glows, and the odours depart, and the flowers close, because the spring breezes so sweetly blow, and the waves of the stream ever sighing flow, and because my heart swells with the sorrows of love, hence sing I so tenderly in the lone grove. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. A last word from the poems of Ernest Dowson, read for LibriVox.org by Dale Groothman. Let us go hence, the night is now at hand, the day is overwarned, the birds all flown, and we have reaped the crops the gods have sown. Despair and death, deep darkness or the land broods like an owl we cannot understand, laughter or tears, for we have only known surpassing vanity, vain things alone have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence some wither, strange and cold. To hollow lands where just men and unjust find end of labour, where is rest for the old, freedom to all from love and fear and lust, twine our torn hands, all pray the earth unfolds our life-strickened hearts, and turns them into dust. End of poem this recording is in the public domain. Lines composed a few miles above Tintin Abbey by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Peter Tomlinson. Five years have passed, five summers, with the length of five long winters, and again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with a soft inland murmur. Once again do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day has come when I again repose here, under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, which at this season, with their unright fruits, are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves mid-groves and copses. Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild, these pastoral farms green to the very door, and reese of smoke sent up in silence from among the trees, with some uncertain notice, as might seem, of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire the hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, through a long absence, have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man's eye. But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din of towns and cities, I have owed to them, in hours of weariness, sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, and passing even into my purer mind, with tranquil restoration, feelings, too, of unremembered pleasure, such, perhaps, as have no slight or trivial influence on that best portion of a good man's life, his little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Nor, lest, I trust, to them I may have owed another gift, of aspect more sublime, that blessed mood, in which the birthing of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened, that serene and blessed mood, in which the affections gently lead us on, until the breath of this corporeal frame, and even the motion of our human blood, almost suspended, we are laid asleep in body, and become a living soul, while, with an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. If this be but a vain belief, yet, oh, how oft, in darkness and amid the many shapes of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir, unprofitable, and the fever of the world, have hung upon the beatings of my heart, how oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, oh, Sylvan, why, thou wanderer through the woods, how often has my spirit turned to thee? And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, with many recognitions dim and faint, and somewhat of a sad perplexity, the picture of the mind revives again. While here I stand, not only with the sense of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts, that in this moment there is life and food for future years. And so I dare to hope, though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills, when like a row I bounded earth and mountains by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led, more like a man flying from something that he dreads, than one who sought the thing he loved. For nature then, the course of pleasures of my boyish days and their glad animal movements all gone by, to me was all in all. I cannot paint what then I was. The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion. The tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, their colours and their forms, were then to me an appetite, a feeling and a love that had no need of a remote charm, by thought supplied, nor any interest unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, and all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy raptures. Not for this faint eye, nor more nor murmur, other gifts have followed. For such loss I would believe abundant recompense, for I have learned to look on nature not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts, a sense of lime as something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man, a motion and a spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods and mountains, and all that we behold from this green earth, of all the mighty world of eye and ear, both what they half create, and what perceive. Well pleased to recognize in nature and the language of the sense, the anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart and soul of all my moral being, nor perchance if I were not thus taught, should I the more suffer my genial spirits to decay. For thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river, thou my dearest friend, my dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart, and read my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while may I behold in thee what I was once, my dear, dear sister, and this prayer I make, knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her, tis her privilege through all the years of this our life to lead from joy to joy. For she can so inform the mind that is within us, so impressed with quietness and beauty, and so feed with lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, rash judgements, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall air prevail against us, or disturb our cheerful faith, that all which we behold is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk, and let the misty mountain winds be free to blow against thee, and in after years, when these wild ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure, when thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, thy memory be as a dwelling place for all sweet sounds and harmonies. O, then is solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts of tender joy will thou remember me? And these my exhortations, nor, perchance, if I should be where I no more can hear thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence, wilt thou then forget that on the banks of this delightful stream we stood together, and that I, so long a worshipper of nature, hither came unwearied in that service, rather say with warmer love. O, with far deeper zeal of holier love, nor wilt thou then forget that after many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, and this green pastoral landscape, were to me more dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray, and not so loud, the waves complaining at the shore. If you could sit with me upon the shore today, and hold my hand in yours as in the days of old, I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray, nor find my hand and heart, and all the world so cold. If you could walk with me upon the strand today and tell me that my longing love had won your own, I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away, and I could give back laughter for the ocean's moan. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lord is Risen, Indeed, by Lucy Larkham, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. If in this world time there has been one who at death's door entered in, and passing that dread mystery through, came out again, to human view, his very self, no dream, no ghost, of that for which we loved him most, one whom with heart and soul we knew, one unto whom our whole life drew, for vigor and uplift, why then we too may be mortal men. And if at last absorbed in light his form receded from our sight, to grow within our souls more fair, a spiritual presence there, whereby we knew ourselves, allied to life upon its unseen side, then would anew on dying ray illumine every common day. Earth would repeat our heart's glad song unto our friend we still belong. And if the meaning of some word he spoke to us, came back and stirred high thoughts, we knew not it contained, while he, in mortal shape, remained, kindling within us such a fire of aspiration and desire, for love and truth and righteousness, as breath would fail us to express, sureer than ought, our eyes could see, the blessed certainty would be, knitting more closely, heart to heart. Death has in him, we loved no part, no other voice could stir us thus, he lives, and still he speaks to us. One such there has been, Peter, John, his lowly friends, both gazed upon, the radiance of his face arisen, forever, from the graves called prison, they talked with him, the very same who died upon that cross of shame, beneath which now we rest, the tree of life and immortality. They knew their master, when he passed out of their mortal sight, at last, his star that paled, reborn as sun, was mourning in them, heaven begun, they bore the message of his life into the worlds unrest and strife, and now humanities come see, mirrors his image, it is he, in whom we live, no more to die. Soul unto soul makes glad reply, and never now shall death divide, friends from the friends in him, alight. Love has immortal words to read, to love, the Lord is risen indeed. My naked simple life was I, that act so strongly shined upon the earth, the sea, the sky, it was the substance of my mind, the sense itself was I. I felt no dross nor matter in my soul, no brims nor borders, such as in a bowl we see, my essence was capacity that felt all things, the thought that springs therefrom itself, it hath no other wings to spread abroad, nor eyes to see, nor hands distinct to feel, nor knees to kneel, but being simple like the deity, in its own center is a sphere, not shut up here, but everywhere. It acts not from a center to its object as remote, but present is when it doth view, being with the being it doth note whatever it doth do. It doth not by another engine work, but by itself, which in the act doth lurk, its essence is transformed into a true and perfect act, and so exact hath God appeared in this mysterious fact, that is all I, all act, all sight, and what it please can be, not only see, or do, for it is more valuable than light, which can put on ten thousand forms being clothed with what it self adorns. This made me present evermore with what so ere I saw, an object, if it were before my eye, was by Dame Nature's law within my soul. Her store was all at once within me, all her treasures were my immediate and internal pleasures, substantial joys which did inform my mind. With all she wrought my soul was fraught, and every object in my heart a thought begot, or was. I could not tell whether the things did there themselves appear, which in my spirit truly seemed to dwell, or whether my conforming mind were not even all that therein shined. But yet of this I was most sure, that at the utmost length so worthy was it to endure, my soul could best express its strength, it was so quick and pure, that all my mind was wholly everywhere, what ere it saw, it was ever wholly there, the sun ten thousand legions off was nigh, the utmost star, though seen from far, was present in the apple of my eye, there was my sight, my life, my sense, my substance, and my mind. My spirit shined even there, not by attention influence, the act was imminent yet there, the thing remote yet felt even here. O joy, O wonder and delight, O sacred mystery, my soul is spirit infinite, the image of the deity, a pure substantial light, that being greatest which doth nothing seem, why, to us my all, I nothing did esteem but that alone, a strange mysterious fear, a deep abyss that sees and is the only proper place of heavenly bliss, to its creator, to his so near in love and excellence, in life and sense, in greatness, worth, and nature, and so dear in it without hyperbole the sun and friend of God we see. A strange extended orb of joy proceeding from within, which did on every side convey itself, and being nigh of kin, to God did every way dilate itself even in an instant, and like an indivisible center stand, at once surrounding all eternity, to us not a sphere yet did appear one infinite, to us somewhat everywhere, and though it had a power to see far more, yet still it shined and was a mind, exerted for its awe infinity, to us not a sphere, but to us a might invisible, and yet cave light. O wonderous self, O sphere of light, O sphere of joy most fair, O act, O power infinite, O satile and unbounded air, O living orb of sight, thou which within me art yet me, thou I in temple of his whole infinity. O what a world art thou, a world within. All things appear, all objects are, alive in thee, super substantial, rare above themselves, a nigh of kin to those pure things we find in his great mind, who made the world, though now eclipsed by sin. There they are useful and divine, exalted there they ought to shine. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Night and Morning by Charles Sangster Read for LibriVox.org by Velma Keras Chico, California, March 2020 The winds are piping loud tonight, and the waves roll strong and high. God pity the watchful Mariner who toils neath yonder sky. I saw the vessel speed away, with a free majestic sweep, at evening as the sun went down to his palace in the deep. An aged crone sat on the beach and, pointing to the ship, she'll never return again, she said, with a scorn upon her lip. The morning rose tempestuous, the winds blew to the shore. There were corpses on the sands that mourn, but the ship came nevermore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Only Thou Everywhere by Ernst Schulzer Translated by Alfred Baskerville Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist When the evening's glow is faded, moon and stars are heaven's sore. And when moon and stars wax paler, steps the sun through golden door In the rosy tints of heaven, in the sun's eluming zone, In the stars and in the moonbeam, I behold Thy face alone. Others come and pass before me, but I lift not up mine eyes. From afar I feel Thy coming, ere Thy form I recognise. But when Thou dost stand beside me, indistinct Thy form appears. For, from joy and pain and trembling, are mine eyes suffused with tears. Oh, how can I ever forget Thee without sorrow? Think of Thee, art Thou not forever near me, and forever far from me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Past is the Present by Marianne Moore Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Revived bitterness is unnecessary unless one is ignorant. Tomorrow will be yesterday, unless you say the days of the week backward. Last week's circus overflow frames an old grudge. Thus, when you attempt to force the doors and comet the cause of the shouts, you thumb a brass nailed echo. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Piccadilly Circus by Eleanor Norton Read for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez Piccadilly Circus With the great lamps like jewels leap and burn through the blurred brilliance of an autumn night, I saw the countless figures drift and turn and blend in one interminable flight. And as I watched the European crowd surviving fittest of a million years, I marked three figures stealing through a shroud of mist whose wraith-like faces dripped with tears. Who are they, then, I muttered in amaze, stealing unseen when phantoms of the past through all the roar, the rapture, and the blaze of lustful human beings flitting past? They backward leaned, then, hush, they whispered me. Our names are honour, pride, and purity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Recollection by Anne Reeve Aldridge Read for LibriVox.org by Spot How can it be that I forget the way he phrased my doom when I recall the arabesques that carpeted the room? How can it be that I forget his look in mind that hour when I recall I wore a rose and still can smell the flower? How can it be that I forget those words that were his last when I recall the tuna man was whistling as he passed? These things are what we keep from life's supremest joy or pain, for memory locks her chaff and bins and throws away the grain. End of poem. This is a recording in the public domain. Regret by Richard Legalien Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter One asked of regret, and I made reply to have held the bird and let it fly, to have seen the star for a moment in eye, and lost it through a slothful eye, to have plucked the flower and cast it by, to have one only hope, to die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Roan Glacier Sunset by Robert Bridges Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Like the uncounted years of God it rolls from out the sky. The light of heaven shines upon its wrinkled brow that seems a part of that stupendous dome of boundless blue, where like a pebble in the ocean depths this little world is lost. The sparkling sun plays gently in the deep green, icy clefs, like moonlight in the tender eyes of one who looks to heaven to find her lover's face. Silent, serene, implacable it stands, a mighty symbol of the force that moved across the surface of the youthful earth and scored the continents with valleys deep. As children ride upon the yielding sand, back to the dawn of things at slingy drums, countless ages back to that bleak time when frightful monsters played upon the hills, always the same, yet moving slowly onward. In heaven its head its feet upon the world. The Roan that trickles from the glaciers edge makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit and turns the wheels that force the tools of trade is but the lash with which the giant plays and spins the tops that swarm with struggling men. What is man that thou art mindful of him? The pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want, this tragic comedy we call our life. Across the meadows as the evening falls a shepherd drives his sheep and fondly bears above the rocky stream the weakling lamb. The children hear the father's kindly voice and run to greet and cheer his late return while from his humble cottage gleams light. The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold, the door springs open to a welcome cry and all at last are safe within the home. In cold and awful majesty it stands against the darkening sky, force without warmth, strength without passion, but at the touch of homely human ways its terrors flee and force is swallowed up in life with love. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson Two roads diverged in the yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked on 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 far that the passing there had worn them really about the same, and both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trod in black, oh I kept the first for another day. Yet knowing how way leads on to 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 Rows of Rowan by Anonymous Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schimpf Now is the Rows of Rowan grown to a great honor. Therefore sing we everyone, I blessed be that flower. I warn you everyone, for ye should understand, there sprang a rose in Rowan and spread to England. He that moved our moan through the grace of God's Son, that rose stont alone, the chief flower of this land. I, blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. Blessed be that Rows of Rowan, that is so fresh of you. Almighty Jesus, bless that soul, that the seed sow. And blessed be the garden where the Rows grew. Christ's blessing have they all, that to that Rows be true. And blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. Betwixt Christmas and Candlemas, a little before the Lent, all the lords of the North, they wrought by one ascent, for to destroy the South Country, they did all their intent. Had not the Rows of Rowan been, all England had been shent. I, blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. Upon a Shrove Tuesday, on a green lead, betwixt Sandridge and St. Alvin's, many a man can bleed. On an ash Wednesday, we lived in Mickeldred, then came the Rows of Rowan down, to help us at our need. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The Northern men made their boast, when they had done that deed. We will dwell in the South Country, and take all that we need. These wives and their daughters, our purpose shall they speed. Then said the Rows of Rowan, Nay, that work shall I forbid. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. For to save all England, the Rows did his intent, with Calais and with London, with Essex and with Kent, and all the South of England, unto the water of Trent. And when he saw the time best, the Rows from London went. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The way unto the North Country, the Rows full fast he sought. With him went the ragged staff, that many man dear brought. So then did the white lion, full worthily he wrought. Almighty Jesus, bless his soul, that those arms ought. And blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The fishook came into the field, with full eager mood. So did the cornice chuff, and brought forth all her brood. There was the black ragged staff, that is both true and good. The bridled horse, the water bouge, by the horse stood. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The gray hound and the heart's head, they quit them well that day. So did the hero of Canterbury, and Clinton with his key. The white ship of Bristol, he feared not the fray. The black ram of Coventry, he said not one nay. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The falcon and the fetterlock, was there that tide. The black bull also himself, he would not hide. The dolphin came from Wales, three corvies by his side. The proud leper of Salisbury, he gaped his gums wide. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The wolf came from Wooster, full sore he thought to bite. The dragon came from Glouster, he bent his tail to smite. The griffon came from Leicester, flying in as tight. The George came from Nottingham, with spear for to fight. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The boar's head from Windsor, with tushes sharp and keen. The ostrich feather was in the field, that many men might see. The wild rat from Northampton, with her broad nose. There was many a fair pen and waiting upon the rose. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The northern party made them strong, with spear and with shield. On Palm Sunday, after the noon, they met us in the field. Within an hour they were right thing to flee, and eek to yield. Twenty-seven thousand, the rose killed in the field. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The rose won the victory, the field and also the chase. Now made the husband in the south, dwell in his own place. His wife and eek his fair daughter, and all the good he has. Such means hath the rose made, by virtue and by grace. Blessed be the time, that ever God spread that flower. The rose came to London, full royally riding. Two archbishops of England, they crowned the rose king. All mighty Jesus saved the rose, and give him his blessing, and all the realm of England, joy of his crowning. That we may bless the time, that ever God spread that flower. Amen, for charity. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Sir Spring by Robert Prutz, translated by Alfred Baskerville, Once through the land, Sir Spring he rode, a noble princely night. Around him golden ringlets flowed, his eyes like stars so bright. His charger was a butterfly. He sat there on and smiled. There went before him through the sky, as Paige a Zephyr mild. And as he came into a wood, T'was dreary to behold, how bush and tree their trembling stood, as were it with the cold. But on the forest gazed Sir Night, and spake, Here will I bide. Then looked on Vale and mountain height. Here will I feast, he cried. Young Zephyr flies through heaven's sphere, The clouds throw off their veil, The golden sun smiles forth so clear, To greet Sir Spring's regale. Through dell and dale then Zephyr flies, And hopes each fount and spring. The billows greet the golden skies, And laugh and dance and sing. Among the withered leaves of earth, Life's pulse has burst its thrall. They germ and bud, and blossom forth, And build a verdant wall. A tablecloth then on the ground, Of downy mosses spread, embroidered with sweet flowers round, The perfumed berry's bed. Soon in the trees each little bird begins To build and sing. Then merry choruses are heard, Which through the woodland ring. And when with cheerful hymn and song The birds begin to tire, then may the frogs, But not too long, begin their tuneful choir. Wyn May now saw that all was well, The board with plenty crowned. She quickly bade the sexton's bell, Through all the land resound. The cuckoo cried, while far and near, The joyous tidings ring, Announcing to us everywhere The noble night, Sir Spring. Thus at his festive board presides The noble, princely night, With golden ringlets like a bride's, And starry eyes so bright. Then King, like his festivities, He bids us all partake, But poets and loves-voteries The seat of honour take. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of the Sword by W. E. Henley. Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schenth. To Rudyard Kipling. The Sword, singing. The voice of the sword From the heart of the sword, Clanging imperious. Fourth from Time's battlements His ancient and triumphing song. In the beginning, Hare God inspired himself Into the clay thing, Thumb to his image, The vacant, the naked shell, Soon to be man, Thoughtful he pondered it, Prone there and impotent. Fragile, inviting attack and Discomforture. Then, with a smile, As he heard in the thunder That laughed over Eden, The voice of the trumpet, The iron beneficence, Calling his dooms To the winds of the world. Stooping, he drew on the sand With his finger, A shape for a sign Of his way to the eyes, That in wonder should waken For a proof of his will To the breaking intelligence That was the birth of me. I am the sword. Hard and bleak, King and cruel, Short-hilted, long-shafted, I froze in to steel, And the blood of my elder, His hands on the halfs of me, Sprang like a wave in the wind, As the sense of his strength grew to ecstasy, Glowed like a coal at the throat of the furnace, As he knew me and named me The war-thing, the comrade, Father of honor and giver of kingship, The fame-smith, The songmaster, bringer of women, On fire at his hands, For the pride of fulfillment, Priest, saith the Lord, Of his marriage with victory. Oh, then the trumpet, Hand-made of heroes, Calling the piers to the place of a spousal, Oh, then the splendor and sheen Of my ministry, Clothing the earth with a livery of lightnings, Oh, then the music of battles in onset And ruining armors, And God's gift returning in fury to God, Glittering and keen as the song Of the winter stars. Oh, then the sound of my voice, The implacable angel of destiny, I am the sword. Heroes, my children, follow, oh, follow me, Follow, exalting in the great light That breaks from the sacred companionship, Thrust through the fatulus, Thrust through the fungus brood, Spawned in my shadow, And gross with my gift. Thrust through and harken, Oh, harp to the trumpet, The virgin of battles, Calling, still calling you into the presence, Sons of the judgment, Pure wafts of the will, Edge to annihilate, Hilted with government, Follow, oh, follow me till the waist places All the gray glove over ooze, As the honeycomb drips With the sweetness distilled of my strength, And teening in peace. Through the wrath of my coming, They give back in beauty The dread and the anguish they had of me visitant. Follow, oh, follow, then, Heroes, my harvesters, Where the tall grain is ripe, Thrust in your sickles, Stripped and adjust in a stubble of empire, Scyling and binding, The full sheaves of sovereignty. Thus, oh, thus gloriously, Shall you fulfill yourselves. Thus, oh, thus mightily, Show yourselves sons of mine, Yay, and win grace of me. I am the sword. I am the feastmaker. Hark! Through a noise of the screaming eagles, Hark how the trumpet, The mistress of mistresses, Calls silver-throated and stern, Where the tables are spread, And the work of the Lord is in hand. Driving the darkness, Even as the banners and spears of the morning, Sifting the nations, The slag from the metal, The waste and the weak From the fit and the strong, Fighting the brute, The abysmal fecundity, Checking the gross, Multitudinous blunders, The groping, The pure blind excesses in service Of the womb universal, The absolute drudge, Changing the character, Carved on the world, The miraculous gem in the seal ring That burns on the hand of the master, Yay, and authority flames through the dim, Unappeasable gristliness, Prone down the nethermost chasms of the void, Clear singing, clean slicing, Sweet spoken, soft finishing, Making death beautiful, life but a coin To be staked in the pastime, Whose playing is more than the transfer of being, Ark and ark, chief builder, Prince and evangelist, I am the will of God, I am the sword, The sword, singing, the voice of the sword From the heart of the sword, Clanging majestical, as from the starry-stared courts Of the primal supremacy, His high, irresistible song, End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Song by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Recorded for LibreVox.org by Scott Payne A bee that was searching for sweets one day Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray In the heart of a rose he hid away And forgotten his blistered light of day, As sipping his honey he buzzed in song, No day was waning, he lingered long, For the rose was sweet so sweet. A robin sits plumbing his ruddy breast, And the madrigold sings to his love in her nest, O the skies they are blue, the fields they are green, And the birds in your nest will soon be seen, She hangs on his words with a thrill of love, And chirps to him as he sits above, For the song is sweet so sweet. A maiden was out on a summer's day With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play, And she met with the youth of the gentle air And the light of the sunshine on his hair, Together they wandered the flowers among, They loved and loving they lingered long, For to love is sweet so sweet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Does rocking daffodil consent that she, The snow drop of wet winters, shall be first? Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree To hold her pride before the rattle burst? And in the hedge what quick agreement goes When Hawthorn blossoms redden to decay, That summer's pride shall come, the summer's rose, Before the flower be on the bramble spray? Or is it, as with us, unresting strife, And each consent a lucky gasp for life? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The only way to get workmen out of the house Is to move in oneself. The Bromide's Handbook Spring Cleaning by Harry Graham Let me sing in mournful numbers the sorrows of the spring, When the house is full of plumbers and the builder has his fling. Ladders lean on every landing. Pails repose on every stair. Painters, who on planks are standing, Lock the road to everywhere. And with pigments, Evil smelling, drive us from our dismal dwelling. Stairs are carpetless to step on. Bannisters are far from dry, While, like Damocles' weapon, plaster threatens from on high. Any room we chance to enter, our depression but completes. Chairs and tables in the center hide beneath encircling sheets. And the painters, horrid vandals, have deprived the doors of handles. Workmen, through our windows peering, spread their pitfalls in our path. Daily we are found adhering to some freshly painted bath. Daily have our cooks contended that, however great our grief, Till the kitchen range is mended, we must live on frigid beef. And at last we grasp the meaning of the fatal phrase Spring Cleaning. End of poem End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Waves as they arose, and proud are still, The loftier they uplifted me, And oft, in wantonness of spirit, Plunging down into their green and glassy gulls. And making my way to shells and seaweed, All unseen by those above, Till they waxed fearful, Then returning with my grasp full of such tokens, As showed that I had searched the dip, Exalting, with a far-dashing stroke, And drawing dip, the long suspended breath, Again I spurned the foam which broke around me, And pursued my track like a seabird. I was a boy then. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. End of poem End of poem And felt by chastening grief subdued, How fair thou'dst be in heaven. And now that memory is so dear, That when thou meetest mine eye, I ever see, though hidden here, The shape thou'dst wear'd on high. Bewildered am I when I think of that mysterious power, Which joined our souls with hidden link In my sweet slumbering hour, But, oh, when deeper sleep shall steal Upon my lids and thine, I know that death will but reveal Thy soul more bright to mine. End of poem This reading is in the public domain. To the God of Pain By Sirogeny Nidoo Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. Unwilling priestess in thy cruel feign, Long hast thou held me, Pityless God of Pain, bound to thy worship By reluctant vows, My tired breast, girt with suffering, And to my brows anointed with perpetual weariness. Long have I borne thy service Through the stress of rigorous years, Sad days and slumbolous nights Performing thine inexorable rites. For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul, thou'stain, for sacrifice. All the rich honey of my use desire, And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn, And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire Of hopes unleaping like the light of dawn. I have no more to give. All that was mine is laid, Arrested tribute at thy shrine. Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrong, And all my cheerless orisons are sung. Let me depart with faint limbs, Let me creep to some dim shade And sink me down to sleep. 20 Nay, sister, change that mournful gaze, Send back that starting tear. And say not that in bygone days Thou wert the now more dear. Can that be love which in years subdued, Which changes with our lot? Could I a moment prove untrue I love, I love thee not? Yet in those days so bright and blessed, My inmost thoughts were thine. My wishes echoed from thy breast, Thy hopes reposed in mine. We wept together, felt no glee, The other could not share. Side by side we bowed on knee, Mingled our souls in prayer. Apart our knees are bended now, Yet my prayer is for thee. Say, gentle sister, dost thou not Still lift thy voice for me? Though thou mayest smile when I weep, Our joys no more the same, Yet sacred must each bosom Keep the other's cherished name. And should those bosoms lose the bound, The merry bound of your, And should our joyous laughter sound In blended tones no more, The love that brightened all the past Shall still be changeless here, That we may bear it hence at last To glad a holier sphere. End of poem This reading is in the public domain. Moon, when last thou walked on high To the azure fields of sky, O, how fair the scene that lay Bathed in thy unclouded ray! Darkly stood the solemn hill, And the waves slept smooth and still. Lovely seemed it to my eyes, As a dream of paradise, Closed in vester radiance Bright, pure and pale and saintly light. While the hush of nature round Told that all was wholly ground. Moon, fair moon, what see is thou now? Other scenes beholdest thou? Scenes where many a servile trace, Mars fair nature's free-born grace, Many a harsher sound intrudes On her peaceful solitudes, Many a tale of toilsome life, Care and weariness and strife, And with sultry vapour's bare Darkness to the tainted air. Yet, fair moon, thou looks not down With a proud or sullen frown, Still thou wears that gracious mean, So benignantly serene, Still thy bright eye turns on me, Softly, calmly, soothingly. Change has passed on all around, Thou alone unchanged art found. Lovely emblem that thou art, Welcome to my gladdened heart, Thou returning light I bless With rejoicing thankfulness. Shall I fear that pain or woe Should overshade my path below? Let me rather look above, There is light, the light of love. Change is still our earthly lot, Heaven, heaven only, change is not. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To My Album by Luisa Blake Redful LibriVox.org by Sonya To My Album Go, little volume, Call the flowers, the mental flowers, That never decay. Go, gather them from friendship's powers, For none so bright, so sweet as they. Go, twine for me a lovely wreath Of all the various plants combined, Gather the flowers that plentious bloom In that rich soil, the cultured mind. And in thy pages, now so pure, May genius, wit, and sense combine, Afections strain, kind friendship's prayer, Adorn each leaf, breathe through each line. When all thy leaves memorials fill, I will thy wandering steps recall, And cherish the mementos till I part from life, From friends, from all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A glory, but a negligible sight, For you had often seen a mountain peak, But not my paper, so we came to speak. A smoke, a smile, a good way to Commence the comfortable exchange of difference. You, a young engineer, five feet eleven, Forty-five chest, with football in your heaven, Liking your road-bed newly built and clean, Your fingers hot to cut away the green Of brush and flowers that bring beside a track, The kind of beauty still lines out to lack, And I, a poet, wistful of my bettas, Reading George Meredith's high-hearted letters, Joining between while in a mingled speech Of a drummer, circus man, and person, Each absorbing to himself as I to me, And you to you, a glad identity. After a time, when others went away, A curious kinship made us choose to stay, Which I could tell you now, but at the time You thought of baseball teams and I of Rhyme, Until we found that we were college men, And smoked more easily and smiled again. And I, from Cambridge, cried the poet still, I know your fine Greek theatre on the hill at Berkeley, With your happy ration head appraised, I never saw the place, you said. Once I was free of class, I always went out to the field. Young engineer, you meant, As far a tribute to the better part, As ever I did. Beauty of the heart Is evident in temples, But it breathes alive, Where athletes quick and curly wreaths, Which are the lovelier because they die. You are a poet quite as much as I, Though differences appear in what we do, And I and athlete quite as much as you, Because you have surmised my quarter mile, And I your quartering, we could greet and smile. Who knows but we shall look again And find the circus man and drummer not behind, But leading in our visible estate As Discus thrower and as Laureate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The West Wind by William Cullen Bryant. Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya. The West Wind. Beneath the forest skirts I rest, Whose branching pines rise dark and high, And hear the breezes of the west Among the threaded foliage sigh. Sweet Zephyr, why that sound of woe Is not thy home among the flowers, Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours? And lo, thy glorious realm outspread Yon stretching valleys green and gay, And yon free hilltops over whose head The loose white clouds are borne away. And there the full broad river runs And many a fountain dwells fresh and sweet To cool thee when the midday suns Have made thee faint beneath their heat. Thou wind of joy and youth and love, Spirit of the new wakened year, The sun in his blue realm above Smooths a bright path when thou art here. In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, The wooing ring doth in the shade, On thy soft breath the new-fledged bird Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. Ah, thou art like our wayward race, Why not a shade of pain or ill Dims the bright smile of nature's face, Thou loves to sigh and murmur still. End of poem. This recording is in a public domain. The White Plague by Thaddeus A. Brown Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington Malignant, repellent, appalling, Elate on his death-reared throne, He gloats in his hideous palace Or the world he claims as his own. While from the homes he has ravaged Arise through the glimmering shades, Prayers for the dead and the dying, And the clank of burial spades. Somber and gray are its turrets, Lowering and likened its walls. Fetted and foul are the breezes That float through the charnel-strewn halls Of this nightmare seat of the Plague King, Ruling relentless his doom, With his ghastly courtiers around him Gliding ghoul-like in the gloom. O mankind, what of the tributes You proffer the shape whose gray face Has haunted the world through the ages And sapped the strength of the race? Rivers of tears from the heartsprings From the wells of sad human eyes, Acres of white-wasting faces Staring upturned to the skies. But, drunk with the nectar of folly, A mad world swings on its way, For short is the memory of sorrow In life's strange, many-seen play. The wine flows red on your tables And laughter and jest fill the air, While white death lurks in the kisses That lovers exchange on the stair. While down in the reek of your hovels And up in your gilded homes, The white-faced sour is scattering His seeds that sink to the bones. The winds of heaven are laden With blight from his pestilent breath, And frightful fruits of his sowing Fill your homes with dirges of death. Low, round you, his reapers are slaying, Panther-like, gliding unseen, Stealing in sinister silence And mowing with merciless mean. Silent is in mists of the morning And secret is shades of the night, The fairest blooms of the nation With pitiless weapons they smite. They creep in the dust of pavements, They crouch in each foul-smelling heap, They enter homes like assassins And scatter white death while you sleep. They billet themselves in your sweatshops And on your fair daughters pray. While dark on graveyards converging, Cavalcades slowly make way. You, who are hoarding a million, Rung from the laborer's toil, Chilling his frame by exposure, Ruining his health in the moil, Christian in name, not in action, What will your penalty be When God repays at the judgment In the dawn of eternity? The sunlight of God you deny them By long laborious hours, You grind the life from their bodies, You sap their limited powers, And when from workshops you fling them Plague-stricken, A charge on the town, They spread contagion among you, Air struggling to death, they go down. Wondering alone, or your pavements, Pallid and hopeless of eye, The latter-day leper goes trembling, Seeking a refuge to die. Under the shadows of churches, Proclaiming the crucified's tale, The state supplies for his deathbed A cot in the gloom of the jail. Oh, land, where even the beggar Is sheltered when nearing life's end, That cares for its wounded in battle, And brute creation defends, That houses the victim of fever, And those who drink of crime's leaves, Sick men, at least, should be equal. Are others more precious than these? They call from the depths for our pity, Let no man ignore that claim, Twas thundered of old from Sinai, From on high it thunders again, For we are our brother's keepers, His rights yours and mine to maintain, God's law hangs o'er us, my brothers, And we are not kinsmen of Cain. Oh, masters ruling the nations, Men's lives are more precious than gold, And a life restored to a people Repays it a hundredfold. But drive the scourge from your borders, But bring back the stricken to health, And debts of nations will vanish In vaster production of wealth. Strange that intrinsic assets of a nation Should lie year by year rejected, When effort would mold them a new force in its career. Strange that a plague, all unhindered, May ravage a people at will, While wealth of the nation is lavished, Unpeopled prairies to fill. Millions for armies and navies, That empires vast may hold sway, In labyrinthian mazes the nations are groping their way, While lusts of unsated ambitions, Who surcy in songs allure, Fill lands with hungering faces, And lengthening lines of the poor. Oh, guides of war-weighted nations, Ye rulers of manacled lands, Frighted by war's apparition, And faint beneath its tightening bands. Where is your boasted progression? Oh, where is your peace and good will? As planning defense and aggression, You spend your millions to kill. Christian, large on your banners, Hypocrisy seared on your hearts, Why parade of gospel or savior While playing such ignoble parts, A thirst with warlust primeval, For battle wear in to win fame, Your prince of peace but a memory, Your palace of peace but a name. Masters and men of all nations, Is it glory you seek? Take heart. No cause till the end of creation Will ever such glory impart, As this of a world and people, In a pallid-faced demon's toils, Freedom of earth, the incentive, And bodies of men as the spoils. Down hurled is the gauge of conflict, Nor petty the issue, nor vague, Tis man for freedom in battling In the creeping coils of a plague, More deadly than all visitation Throughout the century years, Than streaming death of volcano That berries and blackens and sears. Flash on the domed blue of heaven, The ominous call of the sea, Let nation answer to nation That people of earth may be free. Blaze its divine inspiration Neath the cross and clear northern skies, And by that sign we shall conquer As to battle continents rise. Eon now on distant horizons Low rumblings proclaim the attack, Rise legions of earth, Tis the hour, Must thy vanguard brave be pressed back? Heart of the world they are calling Thy children in sufferings dire, Then strike as lightnings of heaven And blast with a vengeance of fire, Flinging the yoke from your shoulders, Bursting the bonds that men bind, Crushing this plague in your fury, Loosening its grip on mankind, Norishing the stricken, the wounded, Soothing their cries in their woe, Revenging long years of oppression, Your tempests loose on the foe. And thou, great mother of freedom, Stretch forth thy beneficent hands, And by thy power benignant Cheer on these stern warrior bands, The wealth of thy treasure unstinted, Pour forth like blessings from God, Till howling down to hell's chaos Is flung this white scourge of our sod. And when the strife ends in triumph, And high on the glittering heights, Beacons of God proclaim victory, Then shall earth's warrior knights By ceramic hands be crowned victors, And, born on wings of white peace, Our earth shall wake from old terrors, As trumpets of God sound surcease. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Wind and Window Flower by Robert Frost Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Lovers forget your love and list to the love of these, She a window flower and he a winter breeze, When the frosty window veil was melted down at noon, And the caged yellow bird hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pain, he could not help but mark, And only passed her by to come again at dark. He was a winter wind, concerned with ice and snow, Dead weeds and unmated birds, and little of love could know, But he sighed upon the sill, he gave the sash a shake, As witness all within who laid that night awake. Perchance he hath prevailed to win her, For the flight from the fire-lit looking-glass, And warm-stove window-light. But the flower leaned aside, And thought of not to say, and mourning found the breeze A hundred miles away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. You would have understood me by Ernest Dowson. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. You would have understood me had you waited. I could have loved you, dear, as well as he. Had we not been impatient, dear, and faded always to disagree. What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter, lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you, dead? Nay, let this earth, your portion, Likewise cover all the old anger setting us apart. Always and all in truth was I your lover. Always I held your heart. I have met other women who are tender, As you are cold, dear, with a grace as rare. Think you I turned to them, or made surrender. I, who had found you fair, had we been patient, dear. Ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you better than he. But from the very first, dear, we were faded always to disagree. Late, late, I come to you. Now death discloses love that in life was not to be our part. On your low-lying mound between the roses. Sadly, I cast my heart. I would not waken you. Nay, this is fitter. Death and the darkness give you unto me. Here, we who love so, are so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.