 Warble for Lylok Time by Walt Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis-Strake. Warble me now for joy of Lylok Time. Sort me, O tongue and lips, for nature's sake and sweet life's sake, and death's the same as life's. Sylvaniers of earliest summer, birds eggs and the first berries, gather the welcome signs as children with pebbles or stringing shells. Put, in April and May, the hylas croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallows not forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings, the tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor, spiritual, airy insects humming on gossamer wings, shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above, all that is jockened and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods, the crisp February days and the sugar making, the robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted, with musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard building the nest of his mate, the melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts, for springtime is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou soul unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what, come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up in a way, oh, for another world, oh, if one could but fly like a bird, oh, to escape, to sail forth, as in a ship, to glide with thee, oh, soul, or all, in all, as a ship, or the waters. Gathering these hints, these preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with additional songs, every spring I will now strike up additional songs, nor ever again forget these tender days, the chance of death, as well as life, the lilac scent, the bushes, the dark green heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere, to tally drenched with them, tested by them, cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth, and all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs, sprouts, tokens ever of death, indeed the same as life, to grace the bush I love, to sing with the birds, a warble for joy of lilac time. End of Warble for Lilac Time by Walt Whitman. This recording is in the public domain. Warble for Lilac Time by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by J. C. Guan, Montreal, April 2008. Warble me now for joy of lilac time. Sort me, oh, tongue and lips, for nature's sake, and sweet life's sake, and death's the same as life's. Souvenirs of earliest summer, birds' eggs and the first berries, gather the welcome signs, as children with pebbles or stringing shells. Put in April and May, the highless croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bees' butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallow, nor forget the high hole flashing his golden wings, the tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor, spiritual, airy insects humming on gossamer wings, shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above and all that is joconde and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods, the crisp February days and the sugar-making, the robin, where he hops bright-eyed, brown-breasted, with musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple-lockard, building the nest of his mate, the melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts. For spring time is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou, soul, unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away, oh, for another world, oh, if one could but fly like a bird, oh, to escape, to sail forth as in a ship, to glide with thee, old soul, over all, in all, as a ship over the waters, gathering these hints, these preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with the additional songs, every spring will I now strike up additional songs. No ever again forget these tender days, the chants of death, as well as life, the lilac scent, the bushes, and the dark green, heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples and sorts, not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere, totally drenched with them, tested by them, cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth, and all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for ones to serve in songs, sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life, to grace the bush I love, to sing with the birds, a warble for joy of lilac time. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Warble for Lilac Time by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Christian Hughes. Warble me now for joy of lilac time. Sort me out tongue and lips for nature's sake and sweet life's sake, and deaths the same as life's. Souvenirs of earliest summer, bird's eggs, and the first berries, gather the welcome signs as children with pebbles or stringing shells. Put in April and May the highless croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bee's butterflies the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings, the tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapour, spiritual airy insects humming on gossamer wings, shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above, all that is jockened and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods, the crisp february days, and the sugar-making, the robin where he hops bright-eyed, brown-breasted, with musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard, building the nest of his mate, the melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts. For springtime is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou soul unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away, oh, for another world, oh, if one could but fly like a bird, oh, to escape, to sail forth as in a ship, to glide with thee, oh, soul or all, in all, as a ship or the waters. Gathering these hints, these preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with additional songs, every spring will I now strike up additional songs, nor ever again forget these tender days, the chance of death as well as life, the lilac scent, the bushes, the dark green heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence. Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere, to tally, drenched with them, tested by them, cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth and all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for once to serve in song, sprouts, tokens ever of death, indeed the same as life, to grace the bush I love, to sing with the birds, a warble for joy of lilac time. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Souvenir is of earliest summer, birds eggs in the first berries. Gather the welcome signs, as children with pebbles are stringing shells. Put in April and May, the high-last croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bees butterflies the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallow, nor forget the high hole flashing its golden wings, the tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor, spiritual airy insects humming on gossamer's wings, shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above, all that is joke-hunting sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods the crisp February days, and the sugar-making, the robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted, with musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard, building the nest of his mate. The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts, for springtime is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou, soul, unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lie here no longer, let us be up in a way, o'er for another world, o'er if one could fly like a bird, o'er to escape, to sail forth is in a ship, to glide with the yo-soul, or all in all, as a ship o'er the waters. Gathering these hints, these preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with additional songs, every spring will I now strike up additional songs, nor ever again forget these tender days, the chance of death as well as life, the lilac scent, the bushes, and the dark green heart-shaped leaves, wood-violet, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples in sort, not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere, the tally drenched with them, tested by them, cities in artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth in all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs, sprouts, tokens ever of death, indeed the same as life, to grace the bush I love, to sing with the birds, a warble for joy of lilac time. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Warble for Lilac Time by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Philippa Jevons. April 2008, London. Warble me now for joy of lilac time. Sort me o'er tongue and lips for nature's sake and sweet life's sake, and deaths the same as life's, souvenirs of earliest summer. Birds eggs and the first berries. Gather the welcome signs as children with pebbles are stringing shells. Put in April and May the highlers croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings, the tranquil, sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor. Spiritual airy insects humming on gossamer wings, shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above, all that is jockened and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods the crisp February days and the sugar-making, the robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted, with musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard, building the nest of his mate. The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts. For springtime is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou soul unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lag here no longer. Let us be up and away. Oh, for another world. Oh, if one could but fly like a bird. Oh, to escape, to sail forth as in a ship, to glide with thee, oh soul, or all in all as a ship or the waters, gathering these hints, these preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with additional songs. Every spring will I now strike up additional songs, nor ever again forget these tender days, the chance of death as well as life. The lilac scent, the bushes and the dark green heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples and sorts not for themselves alone but for their atmosphere, to tally, drenched with them, tested by them, cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth and all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs, sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life, to grace the bush I love, to sing with the birds a warble for joy of lilac time. End of poem. Warble for lilac time by Walter Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, April 2008. Warble me now for joy of lilac time, sought me o tongue and lips for nature's sake and the sweet life's sake and the death's the same as life's. Souvenirs of earlys to summer, bird's eggs and the first berries, gather the welcome signs as a children with pebbles or stringing shells, Putin, April and May, the highless croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and a darting swallow. Now forget the high hole of flashing his golden wings, the tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapour, spiritual, airy insects, homing on gossamer wings, shimmer of the waters with fish in them, the cirulian above, all that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods, the crisp, favoury days and the sugar-making, the robin, where he hops right-eyed, ground-blessed, with the musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset or flitting among the trees over the apple orchard, building the nest of his mate. The melted snow of March, the willow sanding forth its yellow-green sprouts. For springtime is here, the summer is here, and what is this in it and from it? Thou, soul, unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up in the way. Oh, for another word, oh, if one could but fly like a bird, oh, to escape, to sail forth as in a ship, to glide with thee, oh, soul, over all, in all, as a ship over the waters, gathering these hints, these periods, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, with additional songs every spring will I now strike up additional songs. Nor ever again forget these tender days, the chance of death as well as life, the lilac scent, the bushes, and the dark green, heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the litter-delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples and thoughts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere, to tally drenched with them, tested by them, cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes, my mind henceforth, and all its meditations, my recitatives, my land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs, sprouts, tokens ever of death, indeed the same as life, to grace the bush, I love, to sing with the birds, a wobble for joy of lilac time. End of poem. This recording isn't the public domain.