 Good Night, by Carl Sandberg Red for LibriVox.org by Beth Peat, Reading, UK Many ways to say good night. Fireworks that appear on the 4th of July spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes. They fizz in the air, touch the water, and quit. Rockets make a trajectory of gold and blue, and then go out. Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack, must remain a white pillar. Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi, crying a baritone that crosses lowland cotton fields to razorback hill. It's easy to spell good night. Many ways to spell good night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Humble Bee by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Burley Dozing Bumble Bee. Where thou art is climb for me. Let them sail for Puerto Rique, far off heaths through seas to seek. I will follow thee alone. Thou animated torrid zone. Zigzag, stirrer, desert cheerer. Let me chase thy waving lines. Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun. Joy of thy dominion. Sailor of the atmosphere. Swimmer through the waves of air. Voyager of light and noon. Epicurean of June. Wait! I prithee till I come within earshot of thy hum, all without its martyrdom. And the south wind, as May days, with a net of shining haze, silvers the horizon wall, and with softness touching all, tints the human countenance with a color of romance, and infusing subtle heats turns the sod to violets. Thou, in sunny solitudes, rover of the underwoods, the green silence dust displace with thy mellow breezy base. Hot mid-summer's petted crone, sweet to me, thy drowsy tone tells of countless sunny hours, long days, and solid banks of flowers, of gulfs of sweetness without bound in Indian wilderness found, of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, firmest cheer, the bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean hath my insect never seen, but violets and billberry bells, maple sap and daffodils, grass with green flag half-mast high, succory to match the sky, columbine with horn of honey, scented fern and agrimony, clover, cash fly, Adler's tongue and briar roses dwelt among. All beside was unknown waste, all was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, yellow-breached philosopher, seeing only what is fair, sipping only what is sweet. Thou dost mock at fate and care, leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce north-eastern blast cools sea and land so far and fast, thou already slumberest deep. Woe and want thou canst out-sleep. Want and woe, which torture us, thy sleep makes ridiculous. Sing we for love and idleness, not else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, there is not else in living. And I would rather have my sweet, though rose-leaves die of grieving, and do high deeds in hungry, to pass all men's believing. I wandered lonely as a cloud by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Susan Barker. I wandered lonely as a cloud. I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high, or vows in hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils, beside the lake beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee. A poet could not but be gay in such a jock and company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought, for oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or impensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude, and then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I would in that sweet bosom be, by James Joyce, for Libervox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. I would in that sweet bosom be, O sweet it is, and fair it is, where no rude wind might visit me, because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be. I would be ever in that heart, O soft I knock, and soft entreat her, where only peace might be my part. Austerities were all the sweeter, so I were ever in that heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yates, read for Librevox.org by Alan Davis Drake. I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, and a small cabin built there of clay and waddles made. Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, and live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings. There midnight's all a glimmer, and moon a purple glow, and evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day. I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore, while I stand on the roadway or on the pavement's gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lean Out of the Window by James Joyce for Librevox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. Lean Out of the Window, Golden Hair. I hear you singing a merry air. My book was closed, I read no more, watching the fire dance on the floor. I have left my book, I have left my room, for I heard you singing through the gloom, singing and singing a merry air. Lean Out of the Window, Golden Hair. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of Essence, Airward Part by Lord Byron, read for Librevox.org by Maya de Viz. Made of Essence, Airward Part, give me back my heart, or, since that has left my breast, keep it now and take the rest. Hear my vow before I go, Zoym Sasagapo. By those treasures unconfined, wooed by each eagy in wind, by those lids whose jetty fringe kiss thy soft cheeks, blue in tinge, by those wild eyes like the roar, Zoym Sasagapo. By that leap I long to taste, by that zoned circled waist, by all the token flowers that tell, what words can never speak so well. My love is alternate, join me, Zoym Sasagapo. Made of Essence, I am gone. Think of me, sweet, when alone. Though I fly to Istanbul, Essence holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee? No, Zoym Sasagapo. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats, read for Librevox.org by Jason Oakley, Brisbane, Australia, www.bangrocks.com. My heart aches in a drowsy numbness pains, my senses though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains, one minute passed and lethwards had sunk, tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness, that thou light winged dryad of the trees in some melodious plot of beach and green and shadows, numberless, singest of summer in full throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage, that thou had been cooled along age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of flora in the country green, dance and Provencal song and sun-burnt myth. O, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful hypocrene, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple stained mouth that I might drink and leave the world unseen and with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget, what thou among the leaves has never known, the weariness, the fever and the fret, hear where men sit and hear each other groan, where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, where youth grows pale and spectre thin and dies, where but to think is to be full of sorrow and let an eye despairs, where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow. Away, away, for I will fly to thee, not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of Posey, through the dull brain perplexes and retards, already with thee, tender as the night and haply the queen moon is on her throne, clustered around by all her starry face, but here there is no light, save from what heaven is with the breezes blown, through verduous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, but in an barmed darkness guess each sweet, where with the seasonable month and dows, the grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild, white hawthorn and the pastoral eglatine, fast fading violets covered up in leaves and mid-may's eldest child, the coming musk rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunter flies on summer eaves. Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath. Now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain, while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy, still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain to thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death immortal bird, no hungry generations tread thee down. The voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown, perhaps the self-same song that found a path, through the sad heart of Ruth when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn, the same that off-time hath charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn, the very word is like a bell to toil me back from thee to my soul's self. Adieu, the fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do deceiving elf. Adieu, adieu, thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hillside, and now tears buried deep in the valley glades. Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music, do I awake or sleep? Watching the east, the autumn sky, up through the darkness, while ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, lowers sullen and faster thwartened down the sky, amid a transparent clear band of aether yet left in the east, ascends large and calm, the Lord's star, Jupiter, and now at hand, only a very little above, swam the delicate sisters, the Pleiades. From the beach the child holding the hand of her father, those burial clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all, watching silently weeps. Weep not, my child, weep not, my darling, with these kisses let me remove your tears. The ravening clouds shall not belong victorious, they shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition. Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge, they are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again, the great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure, the vast immortal suns and the long enduring pensive moons shall again shine. Then, dearest child, mourn us that only for Jupiter, consider us thou alone the burial of the stars? Somewhere there is, with my lips soothing thee, I adding whisper, I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection, something there is more immortal even than the stars, many the burials, many the days and nights passing away, something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter, longer than sun or any revolving satellite or the radiant sisters of the Pleiades. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Though pedantry denies its plain the Bible means, that Solomon grew wise while talking with his queens, yet never could, although they say he counted grass, count all the praises do when sheba was his last, when she the iron wrought or when from the smithy fire it shattered in the water, harshness of their desire that made them stretch and yawn, pleasure that comes with sleep, shudder that made them one. What else he give or keep, God grant me, no, not here, for I am not so bold to hope a thing so dear, now I am growing old, but when, if the tale is true, the pestle of the moon that pounds up all and new brings me to birth again, to find what once I had and know what once I have known, until I am driven mad, sleep driven from my bed by tenderness and care, pity and aching head, gnashing of teeth, despair, and all because of some one perverse creature of chance, and live like Solomon that sheba let it dance. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Poet to His Love by Maxwell Bodenheim for LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. An old silver church in a forest is my love for you. The trees around it are words that I have stolen from your heart. An old silver bell, the last smile you gave, hangs at the top of my church. It rings only when you come through the forest and stand beside it, and then it has no need for ringing, for your voice takes its place. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of Wandering Angus by William Butler Yates for LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head, and cut and peeled a hazel wand, and hooked a berry to a thread. And when white moths were on the wing, and moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, and caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire aflame, but something rustled on the floor, and someone called me by my name. It had become a glimmering girl, with apple blossom in her hair, who called me by my name, and ran and faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, and kiss her lips and take her hands, and walk among long dappled grass, and pluck till time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. That time of year thou mayest in me behold, when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bear ruined choirs, where late the sweet bird sang, in me thou seeest the twilight of such day, as after sunset fadeeth in the west. Which by and by black night doth take away, death's second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou seeest the glowing of such fire, that on the ashes of his youth doth fly, as the death-bed whereon it must expire, consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To bend with apples the moss cottage trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness to the core, to swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells, with a sweet kernel to set budding more, and still more later flowers for the bees, until they think warm days will never cease, for summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy sails. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee, sitting careless on a granary floor, thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. Drows with the fume of poppies, while they hook, spares the next swath and all its twine flowers, and sometimes like a gleener thou dost keep, steady thy laden head across a brook, or by a cider-press with patient look, thou watchest the last oozing's hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them. Thou hast thy music too, while barred clouds bloom the soft dying day, and touch the stubble plains with rosy hue. Then in a waleful choir, the small nets mourn, among the river-cellos, borne aloft, or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born, hedge-crickets sing, and now with trebles soft, the red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, and gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Butterfly by William Wordsworth RedFillyBrivox.org by Alan Davis Drake I've watched you now for a full half-hour, self-poised upon that yellow flower, and little butterfly indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! Not frozen seas, more motionless! And then what joy awaits you, when the breeze has found you out among the trees, and calls you forth again. This plot of orchard-ground is ours. My trees they are, my sister's flowers. Here rest your wings when they are weary, here lodge as in a sanctuary. Come often to us, fear no wrong, sit near us on the bow. We'll talk of sunshine and of old song, and summer days, when we were young. Sweet childish days, that were as long as twenty days are now. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Spring by William Blake RedFillyBrivox.org by Alan Davis Drake O thou with dewy locks, who look us down through the clear windows of the morning, turn thine angel eyes upon our western isle, which in full choir hails thy approach O Spring. The hills tell one another, and the listening valleys hear. All our longing eyes are turned up to thy bright pavilions, issue forth and let thy holy feet visit our climb. Come over the eastern hills, and let our winds kiss thy perfumed garments. Let us taste thy mourn and evening breath, scatter thy pearls upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers, pour thy soft kisses on her bosom, and put thy golden crown upon her languished head, whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Waking Year by Emily Dickinson RedFillyBrivox.org by Alan Davis Drake A Lady Red Upon the Hill Her annual secret keeps A Lady White Within the Field in Placid Lily Sleeps The tidy breezes with their brooms, sweep, veil, and hill, and tree Prithy, my pretty housewives, who may expect it be. The neighbors do not yet suspect. The woods exchange a smile, orchard, and butter-cups, and bird, in such a little while. And yet, how still the landscape stands, a nonchalant the wood, as if the resurrection were nothing very odd. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When in the Woods I Wander All Alone By Edward Hovel Thurlow When in the Woods I Wander All Alone The woods that are my solace and delight, which I more covet than a prince's throne. My toll by day and canopy by night. Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, these lights shall light us to old age's gate. While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams afright, heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait. Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, weighing in thought the world's no happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan. Since so plain joys the woody life can bless, then live, who may, where honeyed words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Whispers of Immortality by T. S. Elliott Read for LibriVox.org by Sarah Davies Webster was much possessed by death and saw the skull beneath the skin, and breastless creatures underground leaned backward with a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of balls stared from the sockets of the eyes. He knew that thought clings round dead limbs tightening its lusts and luxuries. Dawn, I suppose, was such another who found no substitute for sense to seize and clutch and penetrate, expert beyond experience. He knew the anguish of the marrow, the ague of the skeleton. No contact possible to flesh allayed the fever of the bone. Grishkin is nice, her Russian eyes underlined for emphasis, uncorseted her friendly bust gives promise of pneumatic bliss. The couched Brazilian jaguar compels the scampering marmoset with subtle effluence of cat, Grishkin has a masonette. The sleek Brazilian jaguar does not, in its arboreal gloom, distil so rank a feline smell as Grishkin in a drawing room, and even the abstract entities circumambulate her charm, but our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep our metaphysics warm. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.