 Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by AMB Suite 13. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak, Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slimming her rosy hand-the-key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labor all the day, and cheer the road, whose rocks are rough, with her smooth footprints, each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmery brow one star, night will descend the western hills. See at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Adrienne Stevens. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labor all the day, and cheer the road, whose rocks are rough, with her smooth footprints, each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Andrew Bedford. On the eighteenth of May, twenty-twenty, in Yorkshire in the United Kingdom. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared a road whose rocks are rough, with her smooth footprints, each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Bruce Gachuk. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door, till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Bookworm. Down the 22nd of May, 2020, in London, in the UK, a log hut in the solitude, a clubbered roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Caitlin Buckley. A log-hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. That dusk of voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Caitlin Buckley. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whipper-wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. Yet my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Chad Horner from Ballet Claire, in Cyniantrum Northern Ireland. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough, with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. That dusk of voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by David Lawrence. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. Disrecording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Emily Ashrell. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and sheared the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Newgate novelist. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. Yet dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Eric Kim. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-wind spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. Yet dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Garth Burton. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. Quiet by Madison Coine, read for liverbox.org by Garfield De Souza. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opens the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. That by Madison Cowayne. Read for Librebox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham England, GrahamScottAudio.com. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that hopes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Read for Librebox.org by Jai Robishad. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Read for Librebox.org by Jai Robishad. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Read for Librebox.org by Kevin S. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow, one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. RetroLibervox.org by Leanne Howlett. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow- haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Head for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow- haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Head for LibriVox.org by Michael J. George. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow- haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with the smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Head for LibriVox.org by Matthew Ferris. On May 21st, 2020, from Santa Maria, California. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak Morn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by Natalie Boulis. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by VoiceNB17. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love till labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love till labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star, night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by Roger Brown, Austin, Texas. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. A daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love till labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on this shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door till dawn will stand with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by Ragu Pradeep Nair. A log hunt in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. A daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door, till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Quiet by Madison Cowain. Red for LibriVox.org by Victor Komtong Ha. A log hut in the solitude, a clapboard roof to rest beneath, this side the shadow-haunted wood, that side the sunlight-haunted heath. At daybreak mourn will come to me in rain-ment of the white-winds spun, slim in her rosy hand the key that opes the gateway of the sun. Her smile will help my heart enough with love to labour all the day, and cheer the road whose rocks are rough with her smooth footprints each array. At dusk a voice will call afar, a lone voice like the whip her wills, and on her shimmering brow one star night will descend the western hills. She at my door, till dawn will stand, with gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, are mirrors of a mystic land, fantastic with the towns of sleep. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.