 an advanced thinker by Brander Matthews, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. This modern scientist of Werdangkuth, who calls himself a seeker after truth, and traces man through monkey-backed to frog, seeing a play-toe in each polywog, ascribes all things into the power of matter, the woman's anguish, and the baby's chatter, the soldier's glory and his country's need, self-sacrificing love, self-seeking greed, the false religion, some vain bigot's prize, which seeks to win a soul by telling lies, and even pseudo-scientific clatter, all these, he says, are but the work of matter. Thus self-made science, like a self-made man, deems not uncomprehended in its plan. Sees not, he can't explain by his own laws. The time has come at length to bid him pause, before he strived to leap the unknown chasm, ref'd wide to ex-offal God, and protoplasm. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. THE ADVENTURER by Edith Nesbitt Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. The land of gold was far away, the sea a challenge roared between. I left my throne, my crown, my queen, and sailed out of the quiet bay. I met the challenge of the wave, the curses of the winds I mocked, the conquered wave my galley rocked, the wind became my envious slave. I brought much treasure from afar, spices and shells, and rich attire, red rubies fed with living fire, to lie where all my longings are. Heavy would spoil, my keel ploughed low, as slow we sailed into the bay, and long ago seemed yesterday, and yesterday looked long ago. I came in triumph from the sea, bent was my crown, my court's grown mean, and on my throne a faded queen raised alien eyes, and looked at me. My queen, these rubies let me lay upon thy heart as once my head. She smiled pale scorn. My heart, she said, and turned her weary eyes away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Advent by Horatius Bonar. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The church has waited long her absent lord to see, and still in loneliness she waits, a friendless stranger she. Age after age has gone, sun after sun has set, and still in weeds of widowhood she weeps a mourner yet. Come then, Lord Jesus, come. Saint after saint on earth has lived and loved and died, and as they left us one by one we laid them side by side. We laid them down to sleep, but not in hope for lorn. We laid them but to ripen there, till the last glorious morn. Come then, Lord Jesus, come. The serpents brood increased, the powers of hell grow bold, the conflict thickens, faith is low, and love is watching cold. How long, O Lord our God, holy and true and good, without not judge thy suffering church, her sighs and tears and blood. Come then, Lord Jesus, come. We long to hear thy voice, to see thee face to face, to share thy crown and glory then, and now we share thy grace. Should not the loving bride, the absent bride grew morn, should she not wear the weeds of grief until her lord return? Come then, Lord Jesus, come. The whole creation groans and waits to hear that voice that shall restore her comeliness, and make her wastes rejoice. Come, Lord, and wipe away the curse, the sin, the stain, and make this blighted world of ours thine own fair world again. Come then, Lord Jesus, come. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER CORT MARSHAL by Francis Ledwich Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman My mind is not my mind, therefore, I take no heed of what men say. I lived ten thousand years before. God cursed the town of Nunavay. The present is a dream, I see, of horror and loud sufferings. At dawn a bird will waken me unto my place among the kings. And though men call me a vile name, and all my dream companions gone, to his eye the soldier bears the shame, not I, the king of Babylon. CHAPTER CORT MARSHAL by Dante Gabriel Rossetti Read for LibriVox by Kevin S. CHAPTER CORT MARSHAL by Dante Gabriel Rossetti Read for LibriVox by Kevin S. CHAPTER CORT MARSHAL by Dante Gabriel Rossetti Ah, dear one, we were young so long it, seen that youth would never go. For skies and trees were ever in song and water in singing flow, in the days we never again shall know. Alas, so long. Ah, man, was it all spring weather? Nay, but we were young and together. Ah, dear one, I've been old so long it, seems that age is loth to part. Though days and years have never a song and oh, have they still the art that warm the pulses of heart to heart? Alas, so long. Ah, man, was it all spring weather? Nay, but we were young and together. Ah, dear one, you've been dead so long, how long it till we meet again, where hours may never lose their song nor flowers forget the rain. In glad new light that shall never wane. Alas, so long. Ah, shall it be then spring weather and ah, shall we be young together. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Another Way by Ambrose Beers Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp I lay in silence, dead. A woman came and laid a rose upon my breast and said, May God be merciful. She spoke my name and added, It is strange to think him dead. He loved me well enough, but was his way to speak it lightly. Then beneath her breath, besides. I knew what further she would say, but then a footfall broke my dream of death. Today the words are mine. I lay the rose upon her breast and speak her name, and deem it strange indeed that she is dead. God knows I had more pleasure in the other dream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bad Sir Brian Botany by A. A. Mill Read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman Sir Brian had a battle-axe with great big knobs on. He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head. On Wednesday and on Saturday, but mostly on the latter day, he called on all the cottages, and this is what he said. I am Sir Brian, tingling. I am Sir Brian, rat-tat. I am Sir Brian as bold as a lion. Take that, and that, and that. Sir Brian had a pair of boots with great big spurs on. A fighting pair of which he was particularly fond. On Tuesday and on Friday, just to make the street look tidy, he'd collect the passing villagers and kick them in the pond. I am Sir Brian, spur-lash. I am Sir Brian, spur-losh. I am Sir Brian as bold as a lion. Is anyone else for a wash? Sir Brian woke one morning, and he didn't find his battle-axe. He walked into the village in his second pair of boots. He had gone a hundred paces when the street was full of faces, and the villagers were round him with ironical salutes. You are Sir Brian, indeed. You are Sir Brian, dear, dear. You are Sir Brian as bold as a lion? Delighted to meet you here. Sir Brian went a journey, and he found a lot of duckweed. They pulled him out and dried him, and they blipped him on the head. They took him by the britches, and they hurled him into ditches. And they pushed him under waterfalls. And this is what they said. You are Sir Brian, don't laugh. You are Sir Brian, don't cry. You are Sir Brian as bold as a lion? Sir Brian, the lion, goodbye. Sir Brian struggled home again and chopped up his battle-axe. Sir Brian took his fighting boots and threw them in the fire. He is quite a different person now he hasn't got his spurs on, and he goes about the village as B. Botany, Esquire. I am Sir Brian. Oh, no. I am Sir Brian. Who's he? I haven't got any title. I'm Botany, playing Mr. Botany B. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Before Dawn in the Woods by Marguerite Wilkinson Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Upon our eyelids, dear, the dew will lie And on the roughened meshes of our hair While little feet make bold to scurry by And half-notes shrilly cut the quickened air Our clean hard bodies, on the clean hard ground Will vaguely feel that they are full of power And they will stir and stretch And look around, loving the early chill half-lighted hour Loving the voices in the shadowed trees Loving the feet that stir the blossoming grass Oh, always we have known such things as these And knowing can we love and let them pass End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Bibliomaniacs Prayer by Eugene Field Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way, that I may trues eternal seek. I need protecting care to-day, my purse is light, my flesh is weak. So banish from my airing heart all baleful appetites And hints of Satan's fascinating art of first editions and of prints. Direct me in some godly walk, which leads me away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk may extra-illustrate my life. But if, O Lord, it pleases thee to keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be most notably beset to-day. Let my temptation be a book, which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look they'll wail to know I got it cheap. O, let it such a volume be as in rare copper plates abounds, Large paper clean and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to lounge. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Birth of Virtue by Ambrose Bierce Red for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman When, long ago, the young world's circling flew Through wider reaches of a richer blue. New-eyed the men and maid's saw manifest, The thoughts unfold in one another's breast. Each wish displayed, each passion learned. A look revealed them as a look discerned. But sating time with clouds or cast their eyes, Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. A goddess, then, emerging from the dust. Fair virtue rose, the daughter of distrust. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Black Death by Hermann Ling Red for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Tremble, O world! The plague am I through all the lands I'm going, Preparing me a banquet high, Fever is lurking in my eye, And black my cloak is flowing. I come from Egypt's sultry land, In lurid mist's red veiling, From Nile's fen swamps, from murky strand, From dragon's spawn in burning sand, Rank poisonous germs inhaling. I reap, I mow, I stretch my stave, Or mountain range and billow. I'm laying waste to the world so brave, Before each house I plant a grave, And eek a weeping willow. I am mankind's destroyer dread, I'm death the grim, the awful. Drought stalks before me, gaunt of tread, At famine price I sell the bread, To war the air I'm lawful. It matters not how far you hide, I stride with stride yet wider, Swift-footed the black plague am I, The swiftest vessel I o'er fly, Outride the fastest rider. The merchant in his merchant-ice, Home bears me to his dwelling, He gives a feast with sparkling eyes, Forth from his wealth I ghastly rise, And on the beer I fell him. No castled rock so steeply hung, To me it must surrender. No pulse doth beat for me too strong, No body is for me too young, No heart for me too tender. Whose eyes my withering eyes infest, He cares for day no longer, Whose board or meat or wine I've blessed, He thirsts alone for rest, for rest, For dust alone doth hunger. In Asia died the mighty chan, Where cinnamon aisles are shining, Died negro prints and mussel-man, Nightly you hear at Ispahan The dogs round carry and whining. Byzantium was a blooming town, And Venice smiled in beauty. Now, like dead leaf, Their hosts sink down, And who collects the foliage brown, Will soon be quit his duty. Where Norway's farthest cliffs rise white, Into some port forsaken, I cast a vessel, Empty quite, and all on whom I breathed my blight, Must slumber, nair to waken. They're strewn and scattered everywhere, Though days and months be flying. No soul to count the hours half-care, Years hence, You'll silent find and bear, Doth city lonely lying. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cato, A Tragedy in Five Acts, by Joseph Addison. 1672-1719 Read for LibriVox.org. Excerpt from Act the Fifth, Scene One, The Chamber. Cato Solis, sitting in a thoughtful posture, In his hand Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him. Cato. It must be so. Plato, the reasonist well. Else whence this pleasing hope, This fond desire, This longing after immortality, Or whence this secret dread and inward horror Of falling into knot. Why shrinks the soul back on herself, And startles at destruction? Tis the divinity that stirs within us, Tis heaven itself that points out, And hereafter, and intimates Eternity to man. Eternity, thou pleasing, dreadful thought, Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass. The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me, But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works, He must delight in virtue. And that which he delights in must be happy. But when, or where? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. Laying his hand upon his sword. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end, But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, Smiles at the drawn dagger, And defies its point. The star shall fade away, The sun himself grow dim with age, And nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses, Nature oppressed and harassed out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her, That my awakened soul may take her flight, Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, And offering lit for heaven. That guilt or fear disturbed man's rest, Cato knows neither of them, Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And after I am dead and gone, Through grades of effort and control, The marvelous work shall still go on. Each mortal in his little span Hath only lived, if he have shown, What greatness there can be in man, Above the measured and the known. How through the ancient layers of night In gradual victory secure Grows ever with increasing light, The energy serene and pure. This soul that from a monstrous past, From age to age, from hour to hour, Feels upward at some height at last Of unimagined grace and power. Though yet the sacred fire be dull, In folds of thwarting matter furled, Air death benign, While life is full, O master spirit of the world, Grant me to know, to seek, to find, In some small measure though it be, Emerging from the waste and blind, The clearer self, the grander me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Far, far from me, The glories of that fair, unchecked sky, Which, as we wandered, hung over land and sea, My only love and I. The earth lay basking on that summer day, The sea heaved slowly its great thoughts of rest, All spoke of peace, yet looking back I say, Not this to me was past. Eastward I looked over ocean's vast domain, Westward over fold on fold of sunny land. All was delight, but most of all again, To clasp one small, soft hand. To clasp one small, soft hand, And then to look in sweet, calm depth Of quivering violet eyes, To read of perfect trust in that fair book, With ever glad surprise. We wandered silent, but I spoke at last. Stop, on this giddy point a moment stand, Let thine eyes wander over this empire vast, Magnificently grand. Like to some world of great invisible power, Not tied to matter, bounded by no line, Where Rome's imagination hour by hour, And is it not all mine? And yet, if I was sad, or care oppressed, My little bird, or thou hadst flown away, Me thinks I should not seek my spirit's rest Here, as I do today. How bright thou lookest, and how glad and free thou timid one, Yet I have seen thee shrink From scenes less awful than the unbounded sea, Seen from this giddy brink? How should I fear, she answered, When you stand close at my side, So that I cannot fall? How should I tremble, when within your hand Mine knows that it has all? If I was sad or lonely, Then the cry of these wild seabirds, And their searching sweep, As stew and from the rockstay Seasless fly, perchance might make me weep. Then I might fancy them in Seasless quest of good for ever lost, And then the sound of these wild cries Might say, Oh, give us rest, or woe, That has some bound. Look at the distance, see you something dark? Aspec, perhaps a ship far out at sea? No turn, look westward, Listen to that lark singing so merrily. Landward we turned, and overfield and wold, We saw innumerable larks that rose, Upward and ever upward, glad and bold, Then hushed and sought repose. How trustful, said she, is their moaning song. I love it better than the seabirds cry, And yet how each to each must needs belong, In perfect harmony. Most true, I answered, yet I love the sea, Its wild, weird songsters, And untrodden space, better than solid land, And minstrelsy of joyful gentle grace. Bold and adventurous, she said, You love to feel you are not feathered, Bound or tied, your thoughts on strong, sure wings Can soar above, or wonder far and wide. I only crave, like that glad lark, To rise, singing and soaring, But, when heart oppressed by heaven's immensity, With sweet surprise I find my solid rest. Sweet little home bird, fold thy soft brown wings, I, bendering, answered, Look not on the sea, sleep in thy nest, And dream not of great things, Which do not trouble thee. Then, half reproachful, she caressed my hand. I do not grudge, she said, your vision wide, Although I may not follow, While I stand, close, clinging to your side. You would not, said I, could I take you out in darkness, Till you heard the dreadful roar of waves That break upon a shore of doubt, Incessant evermore. Oh, what is real in this life of dreams, The sea, the sky, the rocks whereon we stand, Art thou a phantom? Is it as it seems, Is this indeed thy hand? Or have I dreamed of perfect love so long, That now at last I think my dream is true, My passionate heart has blossomed into song, A song which sings of you? Sweet little home bird, fetch my fancy's home, Only in thy sure love is perfect rest, Sunshine has left the cliffs, So let us come and seek our quiet nest. Sad questioning eyes, they traverse land and sea, Then trustful mounted to the heaven above. One love is sureer, said her voice to me, And that is perfect love. Part 2 Our quiet nest, where dost the great round earth hold such a haven, That my soul may creep, forgetting bygone miseries and mirth, And there forever weep. To the long vistas of a forest dark, I seem to wonder, having lost my way, And only here and there a gleam could mark, Beyond where shines the day. As summer's morning, on a point of land, I stood again, As one short year before, with one beside me, Folding hand in hand, Now gone, forever more. As in a cruel nightmare dream I stood, Scares knew what thoughts through my numb soul did pass, Then anguish came upon me in a flood, I fell upon the grass. Then all the world of sight grew undefined, I only heard the seabird's desolate cry, Through the dry grass, the whispering, shivering wind, Drew closer, then swept by. Far, far below, the booming muffled sound Of waves which beat with never-seizing shocks, Gathering new strength for every fresh rebound On those old, steadfast rocks. But lo! a clear sweet singing calmly broke Upon my ears, Until at last it crept into my soul, Drawn by the thoughts it woke, Up from the grass I leapt. Upwards I followed, till my spirit drank Those sounds like audible colors in the sky. The song was finished, then the singer sank silent, All suddenly. Then, as I stood, a voice drew near to me, Whose tones are only mine forever more, A voice which praised the large sweet minstrelsy, But one short year before. Could it have been, that when that sweet voice spake, And that dear presence wandered by my side, A certain bliss uncertainty could wake, Doubts spreading far and wide? Now all I knew for certainty was this, That on this earth I never more should find My being's better self and higher bliss, And I was left behind. And I had followed sadly down the road, Which brought us nearer parting day by day, And then I could not drop my earthly load, Though she had found the way. And I must backward turn and tread alone, My weary path with footsteps Sad and slow, All was unreal here since she was gone, This only did I know, That she, who was so good and fair and bright, Could never more be blotted out from space, But somewhere, though unseen by earthly sight, Must hold her fitting place. O comfort, growing stronger year by year, Making the faults more faults, To sure more sure, O relic left by deepest soul despair, Showing what must endure. O distant world, whose shores have grown so clear, That its calm colors earthly things imbue, Making us see the present and the near, As shadows of the true. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Cyclists Seasons by T.W.E. In the Springfield-Wielmans Gazette. Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. Spring, in the saddle in a way, A test of steel and metal, Brightness of thought reflects the day, Life in the air and pedal. Summer is like to smiling hope, While training the forces to meet And favorably cope with heroes of the courses. Fall, time emblem of learning. For many in one it gives you. Air prowess sets the wheel of turning, To records that outlive you. Winter, a place that claims on the list A time for toast and story, Repeating honors won and missed In hopes of next year's glory. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Days of Vanity by Christina Georgina Rosetti, Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. A dream that wakeeth, bubble that breaketh, Song whose burden scythe, a passing breath, Smoke that vanisheth, such is life that dyeth. A flower that fadeeth, fruit the tree shedeth, Trackless bird that flyeth, summertime brief, Falling of the leaf, such is life that dyeth. Ascent exhaling, snow waters failing, Morning dew that drieth, A windy blast, lengthening shadows cast, Such is life that dyeth. A scanty measure, rust-eaten treasure, Spending that not byeth, Moth on the wing, toil unprofiting, Such is life that dyeth. Moro by moro, sorrow breeds sorrow, For this my song scythe, From day to night, we lapse out of sight, Such is life that dyeth. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Eligie Before Death by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. There will be rose and rhododendron When you are dead and underground. Still will be heard from white syringas Heavy with bees, a sunny sound. Still will the tamaracks be raining After the rain has ceased, And still will there be robins in the stubble, Brown sheep upon the warm green hill. Spring will not ale nor autumn falter, Nothing will know that you are gone, Saving alone some sullen ploughland, None but yourself sets foot upon. Saving the mayweed and the pigweed, Nothing will know that you are dead. These, and perhaps a useless wagon, Standing beside some tumbled shed. Oh, there will pass with your great passing, Little of beauty not your own. Only the light from common water, Only the grace from simple stone. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. In the Enchanted Tower by Edith Nesbitt Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. The waves in thunderous menace break Upon the rocks below my tower, And none will dare the sea-king's power And venture shipwreck for my sake. Yet once my lamp a path of light Across the darkling sea had cast. I saw a sail, at last, at last It came towards me through the night. My lamp had been the beacon set To lead the ship through mist and foam. The ship that came to take me home To that far land I have forget. But since my tower is built so high And surf-robed rocks curl hid below, I quenched my lamp, and weeping lobe, I saw my ship go safely by. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. At the Entering of the New Year by Thomas Hardy Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf. 1. Old Style Our songs went up and out the chimney, And rose the home-gone husbandman, Our alamons our haze, Post-settings our hands across and back again, Sent rhythmic throbbing through the casements On to the White Highway, Where nighted fairers paused and muttered, Keep it up well, do they? The contra-bossos measured booming sped As the old year touched his bounds, To shepherds at their midnight lambings To stealthy poachers on their rounds, And everybody caught full duly the notes of our delight, As time unrobed the youth of promise Hailed by our sanguine sight. 2. New Style We stand in the dusk of a pine-tree limb, As if to give ear to the muffled peel, Brought door withheld at the breezes whim, But our truest heed is to words that steal From the mantled ghost that looms in the gray. And seems, so far as our sense can see, To feature bereaved humanity, As its size to the imminent ear it say, O stay without, O stay without, calm, comely youth, Untasked, untried, Though stars irradiate thee, About thy entrance here is undesired. Open the gate not, mystic one, Must we avow what we would close confine With thee, good friend, we would have converse none, Albeit the fault may not be thine. And, at poem, this recording is in the public domain. Reputed passions deep refrain, Like ebb and flow of tide, Whose echoes smote upon the hearing Of our listening sense. These pages will become the prey of years, And time, who stretches forth an envious hand, Shall make impossible to understand Our burning words that shine with unshed tears. Aye, and we too may offer no defence. The early mornings of awakening spring, That smote our inspiration and desire, They still shall call, Yet find no answering fire Within the eyes of two, At least, who bring but wormwood From the once so flowering path. And limpid winter twilight's When we gazed through frosted pains Across the purpling snow, Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glow Of logs, whose kindly voices Cracked and blazed with invitation To the sheltered hearth, They too shall come in season as before. Yet we be absent, And within the room our vacant places cast A little gloom. Then shall there fall a shadow On the floor, As of one passing who is yet unseen. Purchance of pilgrim wind Will pause to look within this volume Where our tale unfolds, And sorry at the text he there beholds, Russell with sighs The vellum of this book, But leave no trace Of where his breath has been. Purchance arose that through the casement bent Might cast her ardent eyes Upon this lay, And being touched hide one soft leaf away Between its pages, Out of sentiment, Then toss her wanton fragrance To the south. Aye, many roses shall be born To grace the garden, And the day will still rejoice, Yet never at the echo of thy voice. Nor shall a rose lift up its longing face That we may cool our lips upon its mouth. And side by side with petals and with sighs, With overweening tenderness and trust, Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust. A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes, With grinning pathos from the title page, Will bear stark record of its master, death. Sightless, yet seeing all eternity, With silent voice that rings more truthfully Than any words we quickened with our breath, More full of wisdom than the speech of sage. We, too, have loved and have outlived the laws of love, E'en as these bones survive their flesh, With awful vigor gleaming strangely fresh Amid the ruin of their natal cause, A peg on which the gods may hang their wit. We, too, have cast each other In the flame of searing passion That we deemed was life. Alas, those fiery billows Flowing rife upon the sand, They have defaced love's name, And there remains no smallest trace of it. And yet we live and walk upon the earth Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn, And all created creatures being born must do, And thus atone their hour of birth, A living sacrifice to what? Who knows? Poor, futile things. We make our little moan and clasp our puny hands in useless prayers To that which neither wats of us nor cares, And in our grief, behold, we stand alone Till our complaining lips in anguish close. My eye shall still behold the stars above, And you, how oft will count the hosts of night, But never, never can we feel delight in them together, Swearing that our love is more enduring Than eternal things. Oh, blessed madness that possessed the heart, Oh, sweet unreason that could cloud the mind, Alas, that we have left you far behind, And growing wise must lose the dearer part Of which not even the faintest perfume clings. What would we not surrender overjoyed To hear once more the music that is still? We sweep the strings, but low, no answering thrill From shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed, From souls whom ravishment Has smitten dumb. Oh, for one hour snatch from the throbbing past, Replete with its embodied ecstasy, How little would we count eternity, How ready be to know that hour, our last, No matter what the penalty to come. Oh, bitterness that we ourselves did write these pages, with heart's blood, Yet cannot feel today, one little tremor or a steel, Save of regret for so much past delight. The cup is spilt, of which we too partook. For this last time, oh, once beloved, Stay close here beside me, while my drying pen has still the strength to write our last amen. Tis written, there is nothing left to say, And so together, thus we close the book. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Four Evangelists, by Adam of St. Victor, died in 1146, translated by Edward Hayes Plumtree, 1821 to 1891. Read for LibriVox.org. Supra calios doom consendet. See, far above the starry height, beholding with unclouded sight, The brightness of the sun. John doth, as eagle swift appear, Still gazing on the vision clear of Christ, the eternal sun. To Mark belongs the lion's form, With voice loud roaring as the storm, His risen Lord to own. Called by the Father from the grave, As Victor crowned and strong to save, We see him on his throne. The face of man is Matthew's share, Who shows the son of man doth bear man's form with might divine, And tracks the line of high descent, Through which the word with flesh was blent, In David's kingly line. To Luke the axe belongs, For he mark clearly then the rest, The sea Christ as the victim slain, Pond the cross as altar true, The bleeding spotless lamb we view, And see all else in vain. So from their source in paradise The four mysterious rivers rise, And life to earth is given, On these four wheels and staves, Behold, God and his ark are onward rolled, High above earth in heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Here, where the world is quiet, Here, where all trouble seems, Dead winds and spent waves riot, In doubtful dreams of dreams, I watch the green field growing, For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams, I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep, Of what may come hereafter, For men that sow to reap. I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers, And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear, One waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer, They drive adrift and wither, They what not who make thither, But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of prosopine, Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes, Save this where out she crushes, For dead men, deadly wine, Pale without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born, And like a soul belated In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness mourn. Though one was strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell. Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes, And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well, Pale beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, She stands, who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands, Her languid lips are sweeter than loves, Who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her For many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born, Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn, And spring and seed and swallow, Take wing for her and follow, Where summer song rings hollow, And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings, And all dead years draw thither And all disastrous things. Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure, Today will die tomorrow, Time stoops to no man's leer, And love grown faint and fretful With lips but off regretful size, And with eyes forgetful weeps, That no loves endure, From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free. We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be, That no life lives forever, That dead men rise up never, That even the weirdest river Wines somewhere safe to see, Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light, Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight, Nor wintry leaves, nor vernal, Nor days, nor things diurnal. Only the sleep eternal, In an eternal night, End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Deep in unfathomable minds of never-failing skill, He treasures up his vast designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, And will break in blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace. Behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour. The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain. God is his own interpreter, And he will make it to plain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Peter Tomlinson Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, Some morning unaware, That the lowest bowels and the brushwood chief Round the elm-tree-bowl Are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings On the orchard-bowl in England now. And after April when May follows, And the white-throat builds, And all the swallows, Hark, where my blossom-pair-tree In the hedge leans to the field, And scatters on the clover, Blossoms and dew-drops At the bent spray's edge. That's the wise thrush, He sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture. And though the fields look rough With hoary dew, All will be gay When noontide wakes anew The butter-cups, The little children's dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain, Recording by Peter Tomlinson How to Know the Wild Animals by Carolyn Wells Read for LibriVox by Dale Grossman If ever you should go by chance To the jungles in the east, And if there should you advance A large and tawny beast, If he roar at you as you're dying, You'll know it is an Asian lion. If, when in India loafing around, A noble wild beast meets you, With dark stripes on a yellow ground, Just notice if he eats you, This simple rule may help you learn The Bengal tiger to discern. When strolling forth a beast you view, Whose hide with spots is peppered. As soon as it has leapt on you, You'll know it is a leopard. Twill do no good to roar with pain, He'll only lep and lep again. If you are sauntering round your yard And meet a creature there, Who hugs you very, very hard, You'll know it is a bear. If you have any doubt, I guess, He'll give you just one more caress. When air a quadruped you view, Attached to any tree, It may be tis the wonderoo, Or yet the chimpanzee. If right side up it may be both. If upside down it is a sloth, Though to distinguish beasts of prey A novice might be non-plussed. Yet from a crocodile you may tell The hyena thus, Tis the hyena if it smile, If weeping tis a crocodile. The true chameleon is small, A lizard sort of thing. He hasn't any ears at all, And not a single wing. If there is nothing on the tree, Tis the chameleon you see. And of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I Cannot Sing by Edward Nathaniel Harleston Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp I Cannot Sing because when a child My mother often hushed me, The others she allowed to sing No matter what their melody. And since I've grown to manhood All music I applaud, But I have no voice for singing, So I write my songs to God. I have the ears, I know the measures, And I'll write a song for you. But the world must do the singing Of my sonnets old and new. Now tell me, world of music, Why I cannot sing one song? Is it because my mother hushed me And laughed when I was wrong? Although I can write music And tell when harmonies are right, I will never sing better Than when my song was hushed one night. Fond mothers, always be careful, Let the songs be poorly sung, To hush the child is cruel. Let it sing while it is young. And a poem? This recording is in the public domain. I Dream by Ella Wheeler Wilcox Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of life In the full meaning of that splendid word. It's subtle music which few men have heard, Though all may hear it sounding through earth's strife. Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed, Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust, Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst, Its certain purpose, its serene repose, Its usefulness that finds no hour for woes. This is my dream of life. Yes, I have dreams. I often dream of love, As radiant and brilliant as a star, As changeless too as that fixed light afar, Which glorifies vast worlds of space above, Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath, Before it bursts in fury, and as deep as the unfathomed seas, Where lost worlds sleep, and sad as birth, And beautiful as death, as fervent as the fondest soul could crave, Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave. This is my dream of love. Yes, yes, I dream. One oft recurring dream is beautiful and comforting and blessed, Complete with certain promises of rest, divine content, And ecstasy supreme. When that strange essence, author of all faith, That subtle something which cries for the light, Like a lost child who wanders in the night, Shall solve the mighty mystery of death, Shall find eternal progress, or sublime and satisfying slumber, For all time. This is my dream of death. Let it not be like hogs, hunted and penned, In an inglorious spot, while round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die, oh let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed in vain, Then even the monsters we defy shall be constrained To honor us, though dead. Oh kinsmen, we must meet the common foe, Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, And for their thousand blows, deal one death blow. What, though, before us lies the open grave, Like men will face the murderous cowardly pack, Press to the wall, dying, but fighting back. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Creed, whereby the groaning soul is taught, That God Almighty finds the need of pain, Air-true salvation's wrought. Dear God, who did create the trees, The scented flowers, the misty view, The upland's breezy ecstasies, The ocean's iridescent blue, The arches of the endless sky, The magic of a day in spring, The down upon a butterfly, the anthem that the sky-larks sing, All perfect growing harmonies, each tuneful sound, And beautyous sight that lifts us from our miseries, To raptures of supreme delight. Can I believe that thou hast willed Each bitter moment I have spent, Whereby in anguish we're fulfilled, Thy hard decrees of punishment? Today is June, since early dawn, My heart has felt the sun's caress. I bless the hour that I was born To witness so much loveliness, And I would have a God of love, A tender God who looks and smiles From some not distant throne above, Upon his fair created miles. I know not who has placed the thorns That pierce on our human brow, But I would pray on these sweet mourns, Dear God, oh, let it not be thou. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Still dreams shimmering as through rose silk fringe, To ache for refuge in a silent soul From murmurs of a beating heart, To crave the moments of nocturnal peace While working in a calcimined brick-walled dusty shop, To feel the needles at your fingertips, The crooked feeling in your back, From bending over an angry consciousness Of hurrying and factory bosses, To be tired of the steady refrain, We want production easy on the cost, Ship, ship, ship, to touch, Costly silk gliding through your hands, To have your senses dulled by beauty made ugly, To see it flowing, pouring in daily cascades And lost in a noisy shipping room, Where Italian speech breaks with staccato's flippness Into the dull hum of machinery, To hold your paycheck and feel your dream, Gauze's ripped from the embroidered pattern Of your imagined dream life, Splintered into tiny bits, Lost and forgotten in the great grab-bag of life, God's gambling joke on humanity. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Heaven by Stephen Crane. Read for LibriVox.org by Jesse C. In Heaven some little blades of grass stood before God. What did you do? Then all, save one of the little blades, Began eagerly to relate the merits of their lives. This one stayed a small way behind, ashamed. Presently God said, And what did you do? The little blade answered, Oh, my lord, memory is bitter to me. For if I did good deeds, I know not of them. Then God, in all his splendor, arose from his throne. Oh, best little blade of grass, he said. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Inner Life by J. R. Wilkinson. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. What is this that subtly stealeth over my soul today? Just as the last sweet day of summer, fleeth swiftly away. Weird and strained is the tender silence, That broodeth o'er the lee, Over the streams and lonely woodlands, And along the shroud and sea. The fields are shorn of their golden yield, The harvest time is o'er, And the last sweet day of summer is gone for evermore. I hear only the crickets chanting, A ceaseless haunting strain, And the plaint of the wandering winds, Filling my heart with pain. Regret for the past that was so fair, Steals back with a phantom tread, With beautiful dreams and faces dear, Hid with the silent dead. And I bow in tender reverence, Beside their sacred tomb. My soul is full of a fond desire, For rest, sweet rest, and home. But still, in these mystical dreamings, Comfort and strength is given. These soulful loving and tender thoughts Bring us nearer heaven. And nature is full of subtle charms That speak to the soul alone, And they soothe and purify in bless, Nearing the setting sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A-N-R-I By George Allen, England. Read for LibriVox.org By Larry Wilson With bleeding brows beneath a thorn mesh crown With swollen hands fast bound in leather and thong I saw one stand amid a surging throng That spat on him and strove to drag him down. On his bowed back the ridged wealth scarlet lay Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face was streaked with sweat and blood As in that place he silent stood and silent gazed away. Once more that one I saw, Still garlanded with mocking thorns, Through either bleeding hand and through both patient feet A mangly nail was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, cried, Hell, God crucified! And some crossed low and dread and wept, And thunderous darkness filled the land. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Little Rhyme By Catherine Solbury In The Gertonian, 1913, number 3 Read for LibriVox.org By Mike Overby, Midland Washington 1 Work! Work! Work! A poem I'm told to write And how to begin it I cannot guess And how to complete it I know much less 2 Work! Work! Work! Till my brain begins to swim It will not rhyme, it will not rhyme And I've wasted so much of my study time 3 And now I send this tale of woe It breaks my heart to grieve you so End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lonely Heart By Chauncey Hare Townshend Read for LibriVox.org By Sonja The Lonely Heart There is joy in loneliness, Which lonely minds alone can know, Such as to none can ever express The secrets of their joy or woe. Souls wild and various as the liar That never too mortal touch will yield, Mysterious as the tomb's deep fire, Never too mortal eye revealed, Who feel within them deathless powers That pant and struggle to be free, That would outstrip time's lazy hours, And launch upon eternity. Ah, little deems the blind, dull crowd, When gazing on a tranquil brow, What thoughts and feelings unavowed, What fiery passions lurk below. That while the tongue performs its part, And customs trivial phrase will say, On fancy swings the true and hard, Fleets to some region far away. Feeds sweetly on some chosen seam, Holds converse with the dearly loved, Weaves the light tissue of a dream, Or wonders where we once have roved. All is not as it seems, That I, though bright, may oft be quenched in tears, And oft that bosom heaved as I, Unheeding as it now appears. Then, O the rapture, none can tame, To think the soul at least is free, And view, who may, the outward frame, No I, save one, the heart can see. And that parental I can never, Upon his cherished thoughts intrude, Which dayns his loneliness to share, Yet leaves the bliss of solitude. Tis he that ever loves to hear The hurrying of the unbridled wind, And following on its wild career, Owns kindred wildness in his mind. He loves to gaze the starry sky, Or ocean's heaving plain to view, Where no dull barrier checks the eye, And feels his soul as boundless too. When round the moon, each broken cloud, Takes every hue of light and shade, Oft tinted like the gleamy shroud, Which autumn on the woods has laid. When rising on the distant waves, A long pale line of light she throws, He wanders by the ocean caves, And strange disorder transport knows. Oft too at eve his eye will turn To alpine clouds amid the west, Where gorgeous colors richly burn By the sun's parting glance impressed. There, with the spirits of the air, His spirit travels, pleased or grieved, Shapes out a thousand visions there, And weeps at what itself conceived. Now seams over lonely tracks to roam, Now climbs with pain that this is deep, Now hails, now leaves his mountain home, Now steers his bark along the deep. To him will musics every tone Yield bliss beyond the valga joy, Nor idly please his ear alone, But all his wakeful soul employ. To him it seems a mighty spell, Which calls, and never calls, in vain, Imagination from her cell, With all her air embodied train. Low, while he shuts his shaded eyes, As steaming thus the ear might win, That quick and sense their lost supplies, The bright soul hopes her eyes within. What graceful forms in braided dance, What scenes of more than mortal you, Flip by, in varied elegance, Or rise before his visioned view. Still, as the changeful measures flow, He frames some wild accord and tale, Now soars to joy, now sinks to woe, As the notes triumph, or bewail. These joys are his, and can he turn One thought upon the world below? Can he do art, then proudly spurn, All it can promise, or bestow? He will not turn from these pure joys, For all that pomp or power have known. To them he leaves gods, scepters toys, Content to call his mind his own. And the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Their laurels, kings, and heroes yield. Lo, at thy shrine, great Antony bows the knee, Disdains his victor's wreath, and flies the field. From woman's lips, Alcedes lists thy tone, And grasps the inglorious distaff for his sword. An eastern scepter at thy feet is thrown, And nation's worshipped idol owns thee, Lord. And well, Fair Norsjahan, his throne became, erece when she ruled his empire in thy name. The sorcerer Jarces could to aid restore, Youths faded bloom, or childhoods vanished glee. Magician love, canst thou not yet do more? Is not the faithful heart kept young by thee? But near that traitor bosom formed to stray, Those perjured lips, which twice thy vows have breathed, Can know raptures of thy magic sway, Or find the balsam in thy garland wreath. Fancy or folly may his breast have moved, But he who wanders never truly loved. End of Porn This recording is in the public domain. My Last Duchess by Robert Browning Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Copeland. My Last Duchess For our own. That's my Last Duchess, painted on the wall, Looking as if she were a lie. I call that piece a wonder now. Fra Pandol's hands work busily a day, and there she stands. Would please you sit and look at her? I said, Fra Pandol, by design, For never read strangers like you That pictured countenance, the depth, And passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned, Since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you but I. And seemed as they would ask me, If they durst, how such a glance came there, So not the first are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, it was not her husband's presence, Only, called that spot of joy into the Duchess' cheek. Perhaps Fra Pandol chanced to say, Her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much, Or paint must never hope to reproduce The faint half-flush that dies along her throat. Such stuff was courtesy, she thought. And cause enough for calling up that spot of joy. She had a heart, how shall I say, Too soon made glad, too easily impressed. She liked, put her she looked on, And her looks went everywhere. So it was all one, my favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the west, The bow-cherry some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, The white mule she rode with round the terrace, All and each would draw from her And like the approving speech, A blush, at least. She thanked men. Good, but thank, somehow, I know not how, As if she ranked my gift of a nine hundred years old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? Even had you skill in speech, which I have not, To make your will quite clear to such and one, And say, just this or that, and you disgusts me. Here you'll miss, or there exceed, the mark. And if she let herself be lessened so, Nor plainly set her wits to yours for sooth, And made excuse, I mean, then, would be some stooping, And I choose never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, when ere I passed her, But who passed without much the same smile? This grew, I gave commands, Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands, as if alive, Will please you rise, we'll meet the company below, then. I repeat, the countermaster's known munificence, The example warrant that no just pretence of mine For dowry will be disallowed, Though his fair daughter's self, as I about it, Starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a seahorse, thought a rarity, Which Klaus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. Notes. My last duchess puts, in the mouth of a Duke of Ferrara, A typical husband and art-patron of the Renaissance, A description of his last wife, Whose happy nature and universal kindliness Were a perpetual affront to his exacting self-predominance, And whose suppression of the world, For dominance, and whose suppression, by his command, Has made the vacancy he is now, In his interview with the envoy for a new match, Taking precaution to fill more acceptably. Line three, for Pandoff, and line fifty-six, Klaus of Innsbruck, are imaginary. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Life, by Anna Cora Mallett, Read for LibriVox.org, by K-Taylor07, January 17th, 2020, www.tla.wapshotpress.org My life is a fairy's gay dream, And thou art the genie who's wand, Tents all things around with the beam, The bloom of Titania's bright band. A wish to my lips never sprung, A hope to my eyes never shone, But ere it was breathed by my tongue, To grant it thy footsteps have flown, Thy joys they have ever been mine, Thy sorrows too often thine own, The sun that on me still would shine, Or thee through its shadows alone. Life's garland then let us divide, Its roses I'd faint see thee wear, For one, but I know thou wilt chide, Ah, leave me its thorns love to bear. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. Near Avalon, by William Morris, Read for LibriVox.org, by Thomas Peter. A ship with shields before the sun, Six maidens round the mast, A red-gold crown on every one, A green gown on the last. The fluttering green banners there, Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair, And a portraiture of Guinevere, The middle of each sail doth bear. A ship which sails before the wind, And round the helm six nights, Their homes are on, whereby, half-blind, They pass by many sights. The tattered scarlet banners there, Right soon will leave the spearheads bare, Though six nights sorefully bear, In all their homes some yellow hair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The New Vestments, by Edward Lear, Read for LibriVox.org, by Thomas Peter. They lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress, And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street. By way of a hat he'd a loaf of brown bread In the middle of which he inserted his head. His shirt was made up of no end of dead mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice. His drawers were of rabbit skins, so were his shoes. His stockings were skins, but it is not known whose. His waistcoat and trousers were made of pork chops. His buttons were jujubes and chocolate drops. His coat was all pancakes with gem for a border, And a girdle of biscuits to keep it in order. And he wore over all as a screen from bad weather, A cloak of green cabbage leaves stitched all together. He had walked a short way when he heard a great noise Of all sorts of beasticles, birdlings, and boys, And from every long street and dark lane in the town, Beasts, birdies, and boys, and a tumult rushed down. Two cows and a calf ate his cabbage leaf cloak, Four apes seized his girdle, which vanished like smoke. Three kids ate a path of his pancake-y coat, And the tails were devoured by an ancient he-goat. An army of dogs and a twinkling tore up His pork waistcoat and trousers to give to their puppies, And while they were growling and mumbling the chops, Ten boys pricked the jujubes and chocolate drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat pigs came again and again. They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors, They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers, And now from the housetops with screechings descend, Striped, spotted, white, black, and grey cats without end. They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When crows, ducks, and hens made a mincemeat of that. They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice, And utterly tore up his shirt of dead mice. They swallowed the last of his shirt with a squall, Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all. And he said to himself, as he bolted the door, I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, never more. New Year's Day by Ella Wheeler Wilcox When with clanging and with ringing comes the year's initial day, I can feel the rhythmic swinging of the world upon its way. And though right still wears a fetter, and though justice still is blind, Times beyond is always better than the paths he leaves behind. In our eons of existence, as we circle through the night, We annihilate the distance, twitch the darkness and the light. From beginnings crude and lowly, round and round our souls have trod. Through the circles winding slowly, up to knowledge and to God. With each century departed, some old evil found a tomb, Some old truth was newly started, in propitious soil to bloom. With each epoch some condition that has handicapped the race, Worn out creed or superstition, unto knowledge yields its place. Though in folly and in blindness, and in sorrow still we grope, Yet in man's increasing kindness lies the world's stupendous hope. For our darkest hour of errors is as radiant as the dawn, Set beside the awful terrors of the ages that have gone. And above the said world's sobbing, and the strife of clan with clan, I can hear the mighty throbbing of the heart of God in man, And a voice chanced through the chiming of the bells and seems to say, We are climbing, we are climbing as we circle on our way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. New Year's Eve by Thomas Hardy. Red for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf. I have finished another year, said God. In gray, green, white, and brown, I have strewn the leaf upon the sod, sealed up the worm within the clod, and let the last sun down. And what's the good of it, I said? What reasons made you call, from formless void, this earth I tread? When nine and ninety can be read, why not should be at all? Yea, sire, why shape you us? Who in this tabernacle grown? If ever a joy be found herein, such joy no man had wished to win if he had never known. Then he, my labours logicless, you may explain, not I, since sealed I have wrought, without a guess that I have evolved a consciousness to ask for reasons why. Strange that ephemeral creatures who by my own ordering are should see the shortness of my view. You's ethic test I never knew or made provision for. He sank to raptness as of your, and opening New Year's Day, woe it by rote as there to fore, and went on working evermore in his unwitting way. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Nanzun quale serum bonai subregno kin arai, by Ernest Dawson, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Last night, ah, yester night, betwixt her lips and mine there fell thy shadow-sinnerer. Thy breath was shed upon my soul between the kisses and the wine, and I was desolate and sick of an old passion. Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head. I have been faithful to thee, sinnerer, in my fashion. All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, night long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay. Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet, but I was desolate and sick of an old passion when I awoke and found the dawn was gray. I have been faithful to thee, sinnerer, in my fashion. I have forgot much, sinnerer, gone with the wind, flung roses, roses riotously with the throng dancing, to put thy pale lost lilies out of mind. But I was desolate and sick of an old passion. Yea, all the time, because the dance was long. I have been faithful to thee, sinnerer, in my fashion. I cried from madder music and for stronger wine, but when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, then falls thy shadow, sinnerer. The night is thine, and I am desolate and sick of an old passion. Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire. I have been faithful to thee, sinnerer, in my fashion. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. You are carried in a basket, like a carcass from the shambles to the theatre, a cockpit where they stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyelids, and they mask you with a napkin, and the anesthetic reaches hot and subtle through your being. As you gasp and reel and shudder in a rushing, swaying rapture, while the voices at your elbow fade, receding fainter farther. Lights about you shower and tumble, and your blood seems crystallizing, edged and vibrant, yet within you wracked and hurried back and forward. Then the lights grow fast and furious, and you hear a noise of waters, and you wrestle blind and dizzy in an agony of effort, till a sudden lull accepts you, and you sound in utter darkness and awaken with a struggle on a hushed, attentive audience. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After all, you laugh to hear of it. It is so small, yet none find solace in they know not what. Astra it is that gladdens me. It says that I shall win my wooing, the blade I measured carefully, as I had seen the children doing. Will she be kind? Now hark to what it saith. She will. She won't. She will. She won't. She will. Oft as I ask, that is the answer still. That comforts me, although it needs some faith. Although I love her from the heart, yet little wreck I, if unto her, come those who fain would ate my art. Nor am I jealous though they woo her, for never knowing her would I believe that any one could lightly turn her mind, though to these boasters she'd be far too kind, tis well they know the cause if she deceive. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Feel. The wound that wrangles in my breast, repentance will not heal. Not to the rush or bending reed, my fragile bark I'll bind. That I, mid-storms, may drive with speed, fool-like before the wind. Farewell. We part my tears down, poor. Oh, thus to be misled. Yet hap what will, thou shalt no more perplex the path I tread. No peril fears the sailor-bold. He'll brave the watery way, and on the mast by night, behold, the beacons wholly ray. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Prayer for Peace by Carl Imerman. Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Oh, God, who rules'd our earth, be merciful to me. Amid this din and mirth calls thy poor child to thee. Who, by wild billows tossed, is but of them the sport? Lord, let me not be lost. Lord, guide me to the port. In such a fight I know but one whose counsel's cheer. O Father, it is thou so distant, yet so near. With love I'll cling to thee, supported by thy hand. Do not abandon me on this world's desert strand. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Prologue to the Madman by Khalil Gibran. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. You asked me how I became a madman. It happened thus. One day, long before many gods were born, I awoke from deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen. The seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives. I ran, maskless, through the crowded streets, shouting thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves. Men and women laughed at me, and some ran to their houses in fear of me. And when I reached the market-place, a youth standing on a housetop cried, He is a madman. I looked up to behold him. The sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face, and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if an attrance, I cried, Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks. Thus I became a madman. And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness, the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us. But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a thief in a jail is safe from another thief. And, to point, this recording is in the public domain. Prumian by Johann Goethe, 1816 Read for LibriVox.org In his blessed name, who was his own creation, who from all time makes making his vocation. The name of him who makes our faith so bright, love, confidence, activity, and might. In that one's name, who, named though off to be, unknown is ever in reality. As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim, thou findest but the known resembling him. How high so air thy fiery spirit hovers, its simile and type it straight discovers. Onward thou art drawn, with feelings light and gay, where ere thou goest, smiling is the way. No more thou numberest, reckonest no time, each step is infinite, each step sublime. What God would outwardly alone control, and on his finger whirl the mighty whole. He loves the inner world to move, to view nature in him, himself in nature too, so that what in him works, and is, and lives, the measure of his strength his spirit gives. Within us all a universe doth dwell, and hence each people's usage laudable, that every one the best that meets his eyes as God, yea, in his God doth recognize. To him both earth and heaven surrenders he, fears him, and loves him too, if that may be. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. By Winston Tharp. So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Requiem by Damon Runyon. Red for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. Shuffle by and gaze on him as he lays in gracious sleep. Rest for him who's gone away where the best and worst shall go. Saronot, the eyes are dim, sweet indeed the sleep of him. Saronot, for God is good, let the drums be very low. Somewhere out ahead is light, somewhere in the sea there's land. Pass him by in deepest silence, let him sleep. Still in cold he seems, not so. In his heart there is a glow. Saronot, for God is gentle, do not weep. Sings a lark at golden morn, sings the song of grace for him. Saronot, his dreams are quiet dreams of love. Saronot, he smiles again, warm his smiling lips again, warm his heart. For God is gracious with his love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Resurrection Possible and Probable by Robert Herrick 1591 to 1674 Read for LibriVox.org For each one body that eith the earth is sown, there's an uprising but for one for one. But for each grain that in the ground is thrown, three score or four score spring up dense for one. So that the wonder is not half so great of ours, as is the rising of the wheat. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Sailing of the Fleets by Bliss Carmen Read for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez Now the spring is in the town, now the wind is in the tree, and the wintered keels go down to the calling of the sea. Out from mooring dock and slip, through the harbour boys they glide, drawing seaward till they dip to the swirling of the tide. One by one and two by two, down the channel turns they go, steering for the open blue where the salty great airs blow, craft of many a build and trim, every stitch of sail unfurled, till they hang upon the rim of the azure ocean world. Who has ever man or boy seen the sea all flecked with gold, and not longed to go with joy, forth upon adventures bold? Who could bear to stay in door, now the wind is in the street, for the creaking of the oar and the tugging of the sheet? Now the spring is in the town, who would not a rover be, when the wintered keels go down to the calling of the sea? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Savata Siddha Buddha, by John Payne, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. One, the desert of the unaccomplished years fills the round compass of our careful eyes, and still, from age to age, the same sun's rise and life-troops past, a mask of smiles and tears, the same void hopes vie with the same vain fears, and in the gray-sad circuit of the skies, to the monotonous music of our sighs, we plod toward the goal that never nears. Ah, who shall solve us of the dreary days, the unlived life and the tormenting dreams, that on the happy blank of easeful night paint evermore for us the backward ways and the old mirage with its cheating streams, and urge us back into the unwon fight? Two, we turn for comfort to the wise of old, for tidings of the land that lies ahead, the land to which their firmer feet have led, himming its shores of amethyst and gold. We ask, the answer comes back stern and cold, good up your lines, rest is not for the dead, beyond the graveyard and the evening red new lives, and ever yet new lives unfold. Ye speak in vain, if rest be not from life, what wreck we of new worlds and clearer air, of brighter suns and skies of deeper blue if life, and all its weariness be there. Is there no sage of all we turn unto will guide us to the gooden of our strife? Three, yes there is one, for the sad sons of man that languish in the deserts, travail warn, five times five hundred years ago was born under those orient skies, from whence began all light, a saviour from the triple ban of birth and death and life renewed forlorn. Third of the Christs he came to those who mourn, Prometheus, Hercules had led to the van. His scriptures were the forest and the fen, from the dead flower he learnt and the spent night the lesson of the eternal nothingness, how what is best is ceasing from the light and putting off life's raiment of duress, and taught it to the weary race of men. Four, he did not mock the battle-broken soul with promise of vain heavens beyond the tomb, as who should think to break the boating gloom of stormful skies, uplifting to the pole gilt suns and tinsel stars? Unto their dull, who batten on life's gulls, he knew no doom is dread as that which in death's darkling womb rewrites life's endless and accursed scroll. Wherefore he taught that to abstain is best, seeing that to those who have their hope in naught peace quickly occums, and that eternal rest wherein in spirit thou sedota art, chief of the high sad souls that sit apart, throned in their incommunicable thought. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Simon the Cyrenian Speaks by Count P. Cullen Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. He never spoke a word to me, and yet he called my name. He never gave a sign to me, and yet I knew, and came. At first I said, I will not bear his cross upon my back. He only seeks to place it there because my skin is black. But he was dying for a dream, and he was very meek. And in his eyes there shone a gleam, men journey far to seek. It was himself, my pity-bot, I did for Christ alone, what all of Rome could not have wrought, with bruise of lash or stone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of the Poor by George Allen England Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Au revoir qui sera jugé à votre tour. Bonne ville. O kings who must yourselves be judged one day. Think of the wretched poor that ever stand on famine's edge, and pity them. They pray for you and love you, dredging till your land, and toiling till your coffers. They withstand your enemies. Yet damned on earth they fare, woe infinite and endless pain they bear. Not one there is but knows the keen distress of cold, of heat and rain, and ceaseless care. For to the poor all things are bitterness. Even as a beast of burden, scourged domain, the wretched peasant lives his hopeless life. Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain an hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife to share the sorrow of his unequal strife? His lord as savage bird of prey draws nigh, relentless comes and saying, Here am I. Ceases what little he may chance possess. Nothing avails the vassals pleading cry, for the poor all things are bitterness. Pity the wretched jester in your halls. Think on the fisher when the black waves curl their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls on his frail boat. Pity the blue-eyed girl, lowly and dreaming, as your young hands whirl the droning wheel. Think of a mother's pain and torment as she weeps and seeks in vain, holding her fair dead child in blind distress, to warm his cold heart back to life again. O to the poor all things are bitterness. Envoi, mercy for these thine own, O Prince, I cry. Peace to thy vassal neath his darkened sky, peace to the pale nun praying passionless, and to all such as lowly live and die. For to the poor all things are bitterness. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.