 After Apple Picking by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Jan Baer. After Apple Picking My long two pointed ladders sticking through a tree toward heaven still, and there's a barrel that I didn't fill beside it, and there may be two or three apples I didn't pick upon some bow, but I am done with apple picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, the scent of apples, I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my side, I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough and held against the world of hoary grass. It melted and I let it fall and break, but I was well upon my way to sleep before it fell, and I could tell what form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, stem end and blossom end, and every fleck of russets showing clear. My in-step arch not only keeps the ache, it keeps the pressure of a ladder round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend, and I keep hearing from the cellar bin the rumbling sound of load on load of apples coming in, for I've had too much of apple picking. I am overtired of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, cherish in hand, lift down and not let fall. For all that struck the earth, no matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, went surely to the cider-apple heap as of no worth. One can see what will trouble this sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is, where he not gone the woodchuck could say whether it's like his long sleep, as I describe it's coming on, or just some human sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Narrated by Sean McKinley. At that hour, when all things have repose, a lonely watcher of the skies, do you hear the night wind and the sighs of harps playing unto love to unclose the pale gates of sunrise? When all things repose, do you alone awake to hear the sweet harps play to love before him on his way? And the night wind answering in antiphon till night is overgone? Play on, invisible harps, unto love, whose way in heaven is aglow at that hour when soft lights come and go, soft sweet music in the air above and in the earth below. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. From the Shore by Carl Sandberg. Read for LibriVox.org by Jason Oakley. Brisbane, Australia. www.bangrocks.com From the Shore. A lone greybird, dim-dipping, far-flying, alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumult of night and the sea and the stars and storms. Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers. Out into the gloom it swings and batters. Out into the wind and the rain and the vast. Out into the pit of a great black world where fogs are at battle sky-driven, sea-blown. Love of mist and rapture of flight, glories of chance and hazards of death on its eager and palpitant wings. Out into the deep of the great dark world, beyond the long borders where foam and drift of the sundering waves are lost and gone on tides that plunge and rear and crumble. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hysteria by T.S. Eliot. Read by Jim Tiley. Hysteria. As she laughed, I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad drill. I was drawn in by short gasps and held at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white-checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying, If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. The Land of Nod by Robert Lewis Stevenson. Read for LibreVox.org by Etha Marie Kignones. From breakfast on through all the day at home among my friends I stay, but every night I go abroad afar into the land of Nod. All by myself I have to go, with none to tell me what to do, all alone beside the streams and up the mountain's sides of dreams. The strangest things are these for me, both things to eat and things to see, and many frightening sights abroad till the morning in the land of Nod. Try as I like to define my way, I never can get back by day, nor can remember plain and clear the curious music that I hear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mending Wall by Robert Frost Read for LibreVox.org by Alan Davis Drake of Long Branch, New Jersey. Something there is that doesn't like a wall that sends the frozen groundswell under it and spills the upper boulders in the sun and makes gaps even too can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing. I have come after them and made repair where they have left not one stone on stone but they would have a rabbit out of hiding to please the helping dogs. The gaps I mean. No one has seen them made or heard them made but at spring mending time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill and on a day we meet to walk the line and set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each and some are loaves and some are nearly balls. We have to use a spell to make them balance. Stay where you are until our backs are turned. We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game. One on a side. It comes to little more. There where it is we do not need the wall. He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, good fences make good neighbors. Spring is the mischief in me and I wonder if I could put a notion in his head. Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd asked to know what I was walling in or walling out and to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall that wants it down. I could say elves to him but it's not elves exactly and I'd rather he set it for himself. I see him there bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top in each hand like an old stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying and he likes having thought of it so well. He says again, good fences make good neighbors. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Music I Heard by Conrad Eichen Read for LibraVox.org by Alan Davis Drake Music I Heard with you was more than music and bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you all is desolate all that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table silver and I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved and yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them and blessed them with your hands and your eyes and in my heart they will remember always. They knew you once, oh beautiful and wise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson Read for LibraVox.org by Eva Marie Kenyones I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me and what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head and I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow not at all like proper children, which is always very slow. For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India rubber ball and he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see. I think shame to stick to mercy as that shadow sticks to me. One morning very early before the sun was up I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy head had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Purple Cow. Reflections on a mythic beast who's quite remarkable at least. By Gillette Burgess. For LibriVox.org. Narrated by Sean McKinley. I never saw a purple cow. I never hoped to see one. But I can tell you anyhow I'd rather see than be one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Rain by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox.org by Eva Marie Cagnones. The rain is falling all around. It falls on fields and trees. It rains on the umbrellas here and on the ships at sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Reformers. A Hymn of Hate by Dorothy Parker. Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlyn Hire. I hate performers. They raise my blood pressure. They're the prohibitionists. The fathers are bootlegging. They made us what we are today. I hope they're satisfied. They can prove that the Johnstown flood and the blizzard of 1888 and the destruction of Pompeii were all due to alcohol. They haven't figured out that anyone who would give a gin-daisy a friendly look is just wasting time out of jail and anyone who would stay under the same roof with a bottle of scotch is right in line for a cozy seat in the electric chair. They fix things all up pretty for us. Now that they've dried up the country you can hardly get a drink unless you go in and order one. They're in a nasty state of this light wines and beer idea. They say that lips that touch liquor shall never touch wine. They swear that the 18th amendment shall be improved upon over their dead bodies. Fair enough. Then there are the suppressors of vice. The boys who made the name of Cabal a household word. Their aim is to keep art and letters in their place. If they see a book which does not come right out and say that the doctor rings babies in his little black bag or find a painting of a young lady showing her without her rubbers they call out the militia. They have a mean eye for dirt. They can find it. In a copy of what Katie did at school or snapshot of Aunt Bessie and bathing at Sandy Creek or a picture postcard of Moonlight and Bryant Park they're always running around suppressing things beginning with their desires. They get a lot of excitement out of life. They're constantly discovering the new Chabalay or the 20th century Hogarth. Their leader is regarded as the representative of Comstock here on earth. How does that song of toasties go? Goodbye Sumner. Goodbye. Goodbye. There are the movie censors. The motion picture is still in its infancy. They're the boys who keep it there. If the film shows a party of clubmen tossing off Januriel or a young bride dreaming over tiny garments or Douglas Fairbanks kissing Mary Pitford's hand they get out the scene and burn it in the public square. They fix up all the historical events so that their own mothers wouldn't know them. They make to bury Mrs. Louis XV and show that Antony and Cleopatra were like brother and sister and announce Salamé's engagement to John the Baptist so that the audiences won't go and get ideas in their heads. They insist that Sherlock Holmes was made to say quick Watson the crochet needle and the state pays them for it. They say they're going to take the sin out of cinema if they perish in the attempt. I wish to God they would. And then there are the all-American crabs the brave little band that is against everything. They've got up the idea that things are not what they were when grandma was a girl. They say that they don't know what we're coming to as if they just written the line. They're writing a temperature where the modern dances or the new skirts are the goings on of the younger set. They can barely hold themselves in when they think of the menace of the drama. They seem to be going ahead under the idea that everything that the passion played was written by Avery Hawkwood. They will never feel really themselves until every theater in the country is raised. They're forever signing petitions urging that cigarette smokers should be deported and that all places of amusement should be closed on Sunday all week. They take everything personally. They go about shaking their heads and saying it's all wrong. It's all wrong. They said it. I hate reformers. They raise my blood pressure. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Rhapsody on a Windy Night 12 o'clock Along the reaches of the street held in a lunar synthesis whispering lunar incantations dissolved the floors of memory and all its clear relations its divisions and precisions. Every street lamp that I pass beats like a fatalistic drum and through the spaces of the dark midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half past one the street lamp sputtered the street lamp muttered the street lamp said regard that woman who hesitates toward you in the light of the door which opens on her like a grin you see the border of her dress is torn and stained with sand and you see the corner of her eye twists like a crooked pin the memory throws up high and dry a crowd of twisted things a twisted branch upon the beach eaten smooth and polished as if the world gave up the secret of its skeleton stiff and white a broken spring in a factory yard rust that clings to the form that the strength has left hard and curled and ready to snap Half past two the street lamp said remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter slips out its tongue and devours a morsel of rancid butter so the hand of the child automatic slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay I could see nothing behind that child's eye I have seen eyes in the street trying to peer through lighted shutters and a crab one afternoon in a pool an old crab with barnacles on his back gripped the end of a stick which I held him Half past three the lamp sputtered the lamp muttered in the dark the lamp hummed regard the moon la lune negarde acune rancune she winks a feeble eye she smiles into corners she smooths the hair of the grass the moon has lost her memory a washed out smallpox cracks her face her hand twists a paper rose that smells of dust and ode cologne she is alone with all the old nocturnal smells that cross and cross across her brain the reminiscence comes of sunless dry geraniums and dust in crevices smells of chestnuts in the streets and female smells in shuttered rooms and cigarettes in corridors and cocktail smells in bars the lamp said four o'clock here is the number on the door memory you have the key the little lamp spreads a ring on the stair mount the bed is open the toothbrush hangs on the wall put your shoes at the door sleep prepare for life the last twist of the knife end of poem this poem is in the public domain a sea dirge by Lewis Carroll read for LibriVox.org by The Giant Snail there are certain things as a spider, a ghost the income tax gout an umbrella for three that I hate but the thing that I hate the most is the thing they call the sea pour some salt water over the floor ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be suppose it extended for a mile or more that's very like the sea beat a dog till it howls outright cruel a bit all very well for a spree suppose that he did so day and night that would be like the sea I had a vision of nursery maids tens of thousands passed by me all leading children with wooden spades and this was by the sea who invented those spades of woods who was it that cut them out of the tree none I could think of but an idiot could or one that loved the sea it is pleasant and dreamy no doubt to float with thoughts as boundless and souls as free but suppose you are very unwell on the boat how well do you like the sea there is an insect that people avoid whence is derived the verb to flee where have you been by it most annoyed in lodgings by the sea if you like your coffee with sand for dregs a decided hint of salt in your tea and a fishy taste in the very eggs by all means choose the sea and if with these dainties to drink and eat you prefer not a vestige of grass or tree and a chronic state of wet in your feet then I recommend the sea for I have friends who dwell by the coast pleasant friends they are to me it is when I am with them I wonder most that anyone likes the sea they take me a walk though tired and stiff to climb the heights I madly agree and after a tumble or so from the cliff I suggest the sea I try the rocks and I think it cool that they laugh with such an excess of glee as I heavily slip into every pool that skirts the cold, cold sea end of poem this recording is in the public domain she was a phantom of delight by William Wordsworth read for LibriWogs.org by Paul Z February the 7th, 2007 Hong Kong she was a phantom of delight when first she gleamed upon my sight a lovely apparition sent to be a moment's ornament her eyes are stars of twilight fair like twilight's too her dusky hair but all things air was about her drawn from Maytime in a cheerful dawn a dancing shape an image gay to haunt to startle and waylay I saw her upon a nearer view a spirit yet a woman too her household motions liked and free and steps of virgin liberty a countenance in which did meet sweet records promises as sweet a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food for transient sorrows simple wiles praise, blame, love kisses, tears and smiles and now I see with eyes serene the very pose of the machine a being breathing thought for breath a traveler between life and death the reason firm, the temperate will endurance, foresight, strength and skill a perfect woman nobly planned to warm, to comfort and command and yet a spirit still and bright with something of angelic light End of poem This recording is in the public domain Of speckled eggs the birdie sings and nests among the trees the sailor sings of ropes and things and ships upon the seas the children sing in far Japan the children sing in Spain the organ with the organ man is singing in the rain End of poem This recording is in the public domain The stolen child where dips the rocky high land of sleuth wood in the lake there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake the drowsy water rats there we've hid our fairy vats full of berries and of redder stolen cherries come away a human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand we've of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light far off by furthest rosses we foot it all the night weaving old dances mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles where the world is full of troubles and anxious in its sleep come away a human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand than you can understand where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glencar in pools among the rushes that scare could bathe the star we seek for slumbering trout and whispering in their ears give them unquiet dreams leaning softly out from the firms that drop their tears over the young streams come away a human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand away with us he's going the solemn eyed he'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside or the kettle on the hob sing peace unto his breast or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest for he comes the human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand and of poem this recording is in the public domain The Tiger by William Blake for LibriVox.org narrated by Sean McKinley Tiger Tiger burning bright in the forests of the night what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry in what distant deeps or skies burnt the fires of thine eyes dare he aspire what the hand dare seize the fire and what shoulder and what art could twist thy sinews of thy heart and when thy heart began to beat what dread hand and what dread feet what the hammer what the chain and what furnace was thy brain what the anvil what dread grasp dare its deadly terror's clasp when the stars threw down their spears and watered heaven with their tears did he smile his work to see did he who made the lamb make thee Tiger Tiger burning bright in the forests of the night what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry End of poem this recording is in the public domain A Validiction Forbidding Morning by John Dunn Read for LibriVox.org as virtuous men pass mildly away and whisper to their souls to go whilst some of their sad friends do say the breath goes now and some say no so let us melt and make no noise no tear floods nor sigh tempests move to a profanation of our joys to tell the laity our love moving of the earth brings harms and fears men reckon what it did and meant but trepidation of the spheres though greater far is innocent dull sublunary lovers' love whose solely sense cannot admit absence because it doth remove those things which elemented it but we by a love so much refined that ourselves know not what it is interassured of the mind careless eyes lips, hands to miss our two souls therefore which are one though I must go endure not yet a breach but an expansion like gold to airy thinness beat if they be two they are two so as stiff twin compasses are two thy soul the fixed foot makes no show to move but doth if the other do and though it in the center though it in the center sits yet when the other far doth roam it leans and harkens after it and grows erect as that comes home such wilt thou be to me who must like the other foot obliquely run thy firmness makes my circle just and makes me end where I begun end of poem this recording is in the public domain when the shy star goes forth in heaven by James Joyce for LibriVox.org narrated by Sean McKinley when the shy star goes forth in heaven all maidenly disconsolate hear you amid the drowsy even one who is singing by your gate his song is softer than the dew and he has come to visit you O bend no more in reverie when he at even tide is calling nor muse who may this singer be whose song about my heart is falling know you by this the lover's chant to his eye that em your visitant end of poem this recording is in the public domain and speak when he is spoken to and behave manually at take