 Prefatory note, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This book has been compiled in order that boys and girls, already perhaps familiar with the great classics of the English speech, may also know something of the newer poetry of their own day. Most of the writers are living, and the rest are still vivid memories among us, while one of the youngest, almost as these words are written, has gone singing to lay down his life for his country's cause. Although no definite chronological limit has been set, and Meredith at least began to write in the middle of the nineteenth century, the intention has been to represent mainly those poetic tendencies which have become dominant as the influence of the accepted Victorian masters has grown weaker, and from which the poetry of the future, however it may develop, must in turn take its start. It may be helpful briefly to indicate the sequence of themes. One draws his being from the heroic past and from the earth his mother, and in harmony with these he must shape his life to what high purposes he may, therefore this gathering of poems falls into three groups. First, there are poems of history, of the romantic tale of the world, of our own special tradition here in England, and of the inheritance of obligation, which that tradition imposes upon us. Naturally, there are some poems directly inspired by the present war, but nothing it is hope which may not, in happier days, bear translation into any European tongue. Then there come poems of the earth, of England again, and the longing of the exile for home, of this and that familiar countryside, of woodland and meadow and garden, of the process of the seasons, of the open road, and the wind on the heath, of the city its deprivations and its consolations. Suddenly there are poems of life itself, of the moods in which it may be faced, of religion, of man's excellent virtues, of friendship and childhood, of passion, grief, and comfort, but there is no arbitrary isolation of one theme from another. They mingle and interpenetrate throughout, to the music of pan's flute, and of love's vile, and the bugle call of endeavor, and the passing bell of death, May 1915. End of Prefatory Note All vests past, poems of today, an anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Very old are the woods, and the buds that break, Out of the briar's boughs, when March winds wake, so old with their beauty are, O, no man knows, through what wild centuries rose back the rose. Very old are the brooks, and the rills that rise, Where snow sleeps cold beneath the azure skies, Sing such a history of come and gone, There every drop is as wise as Solomon. Very old are we men, our dreams, our tales, Tolled in dim Eden, by eaves, nightingales, We wake and whisper a while, but the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields of Amorath lie, Walter de La Mer. End of Pre-existence, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I laid me down upon the shore, And dreamed a little space. I heard the great waves break and roar, The sun was on my face. My idle hands and fingers brown, Played with the pebbles gray. The waves came up, the waves went down, Most thundering and gay. The pebbles, they were smooth and round, And warm upon my hands, like little people I had found, sitting among the sands. The grains of sands so shining small, Soft through my fingers ran. The sun shone down upon it all, And so my dream began. How all of this had been before, How ages far away, Are they on some forgotten shore, As here I lie today. The waves came shining up the sands, And here today they shine. And in my pre-pleagazian hands The sand was warm and fine. I have forgotten whence I came, Or what my home might be, Or by what strange and savage name I called that thundering sea. I only know the sun shone down, As still it shines today. And in my fingers long and brown The little pebbles lay. CHOI TOWN IS COVERED UP WITH WEEDS, THE RABBITS AND THE PISMIRES BREWED, ON BROKEN GOLD AND SHARDS AND BEEDS WHERE PREIMS ANCIENT PALACE STOOD. The floors of many a gallant house Are matted with the roots of grass, The glow-warm and the nimble mouse Among her ruins, flit and pass, And there, in orts of blackened bone The widowed Trojan beauties lie, And Samoy babbles over stone, And wraps and gurgles to the sky. Once there were merry days in Troy, Her chimney smoked with cooking meals, The passing chariots did annoy, The sunning housewives at their wheels, And many a lovely Trojan maid Said Trojan lads to lovely things. The game of life was nobly paid, They played the game like queens and kings. So that, when Troy had greatly passed, In one red-brawling fiery call, The courts the Grecians overcast Became a city in the soul, In some green island of the sea, Where now the shadowy coral grows, In pride and pomp and empery The courts of old Atlantis rose. In many a glittering house of glass The Atlanteans wandered there. The paleness of their faces was Like ivory, so pale they were, And hushed they were, No noise of words, In those bright cities ever rang, Only their thoughts like golden birds About their chambers thrilled and sang. They knew of wisdom, for they knew The souls of those Egyptian kings, Who learned in ancient Babalu The beauty of immortal things. They knew of beauty, when they thought The air chimed like a stricken lear. The elemental birds were wrought, The golden birds became a fire, And straight to busy camps and marts The singing flames were swiftly gone, The trembling leaves of human hearts Hid boughs for them to perch upon, And men in desert places, men, Abandoned, broken, sick with fears, No singing swung their swords again, And laughed and died among the spears. The green and greedy seas have drowned That cities glittering walls and towers, Her sunken minarets are crowned With red and russet waterflowers. In towers and rooms and golden courts The shadowy coral lifts her sprays. The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts, The shark doth haunt her hidden ways. But at the falling of the tide The golden birds still sing and gleam. The Atlanteans have not died, Immortal things still give a stream. The dream that fires man's heart to make To build to do, to sing or say. A beauty death can never take An atom from the crumbled clay. John Macefield, end of poem. Fallen cities, poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. I gathered with a careless hand There where the waters night and day Are languid in the idle bay. A little heap of golden sand, And, as I saw it, in my sight, Awoke a vision brief and bright, A city in a pleasant land. I saw no mound of earth but fair, Turrets and domes and citadels, With murmuring of many bells. The spires were white in the blue air, And men by thousands went and came, Rapid and restless and, like flame, Blown by their passions here and there. With careless hand I swept away The little mound before I knew. The visioned city vanished to, And fallen beneath my fingers lay A god how many hast thou seen, Cities that are not and have been, By silent hill and idle bay. Gerald Gold, end of poem. Time you old gypsy man, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. You old gypsy man, will you not stay? Put up your caravan just for one day. All things I'll give you, will you be my guest? Bells for your jenet, of silver the best. Goldsmith shall beat you, a great golden ring, Peacock shall bow to you, little boy Sing. Oh and sweet girls will festoon you with May. Time you old gypsy, why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, last night in Rome, Morning and in the crush, under Paul's dome, Under Paul's dial you tighten your rain, Only a moment, and off once again, Off to some city, now blind in the womb, Off to another, or that's in the tomb. Time you old gypsy man, will you not stay? Put up your caravan just for one day. Ralph Hodgson, end of poem. A Huguenot, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O a gallant set were they, As they charged on us that day. A thousand riding like one, Their trumpets crying, And their white plumes flying, And their sabers flashing in the sun. O a sorry lot were we, As we stood beside the sea, Each man for himself as he stood. We were scattered and lonely, A little force only, Of the good men fighting for the good. But I never loved more, On sea or on shore, The ringing of my own true blade, Like lightning equivered, And the hard helm shivered, As I sang, none maketh me afraid. End of Poem. On the toilet table of Queen Marie Antoinette, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. This was her table, These her trim outspread, Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red. Her sate she, While her women tired and curled, The most unhappy head in all the world. J.B.B. Nichols. End of Poem. Upon Ekington Bridge, River Avon, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O pastoral heart of England, like a psalm, Of green day-stalling with a quiet beat, O wave into the sunset flowing calm, O tired lark descending on the wheat, Lies it all peace beyond that western fold, Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star, Rise upon Malvern, paints an age of gold, Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease, Lulling this land with hills drawn up like knees, To drow's beside her implements of war, Men shall outlast his battles they have swept, Avon from NASB field to Severn ham, And Yves Shem's dedicated stones have stepped, Down to the dust with monforts or a flam, Nor the red tear, nor the reflected tower, Abides, but yet these eloquent grooves remain, Worn in the sandstone, parapet hour by hour, By laboring bargemen where they shifted ropes, In social man turn back from violent hopes To Adam's cheer and toil with spade again, A, and his mother nature too, whose lap, Like a repentant child at length he hees, Not in the whirlwind or the thunderclap, Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries, But when in winter's grave, bereft of light, With still small voice, divine lear whispering, Lifting the green head of the aconite, Feeding with the sap of hope the hazel shoot, She feels God's finger active at the root, Turns in her sleep and murmurs of the spring, Arthur Quillar couch, end of poem, By the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross, Poems of today, an anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sumber and rich the skies, Great glooms and story planes, Gently the night wind sighs, Else a vast silence rains, The splendid silence clings, Around me and around, The saddest of all kings, crowned And again discrowned. Calmly and calm he rides, Hard by his own white hall, Only the night wind glides, No crowds nor rebels brawl, Gone to his court and yet, The stars his courtiers are, Stars in their stations set, And every wandering star, Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king, Dark Knight is all his own, That strange and solemn thing, Which are more full of fate, The stars or those sad eyes, Which are more still and great, Those brows or the dark skies, Although his whole heart yearn, In passionate tragedy, Never was faith so stern, With sweet austerity, Vanquished in life his death, By beauty made amends, The passing of his breath, One his defeated ends, Brief life and hapless, nay, Through death life grew sublime, Speak after sentence, Yay, and to the end of time, Armored he rides his head, Bare to the stars of doom, He triumphs now the dead, Beholding London's gloom, Are we're your spirit faints, Vaxed in the world's employ, His soul was of the saints, And art to him was joy, King tried in fires of woe, Men hunger for thy grace, And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face, Yet when the city sleeps, When all the cries are still, The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will, Lionel Johnson, End of poem To the Forgotten Dead, Palms of Today, An anthology by various authors, This deeper Vox recording Is in the public domain. To the Forgotten Dead, Come, let us drink in silence, Ur, we part, To every fervent yet resolved heart That brought its tameless passion And its tears, Renunciation and laborious years To lay the deep foundations Of our race, To rear its stately fabric overhead, And light its pinnacles With golden grace, To the unhonored dead, To the Forgotten Dead, Whose dauntless hands were stretched To grass the rain, Of fate and hurl into the void again, Her thunder-hoofed horses Rushing blind, Earthward along the courses of the wind, Among the stars, along the wind in vain, Their souls were scattered, And their blood was shed, And nothing, nothing of them doth remain, To the thrice perished dead. Margaret L. Woods End of Poem Drake Strom, Poems of Today, An anthology by various authors, This deeper Vox recording Is in the public domain. Drake, he's in his hammock And a thousand mile away. Captain, art the sleepin' there below, Slung a tween, The round-shot in Nombur dios bay, And dreamin' Arl the time o' Plymouth ho, Yonder looms the island, Yonder lie the ships, With sailor lads a dancin' heel and toe, And the shorelights flashin' And the night tide dashin', He sees at earl so plainly As he saw it long ago. Drake, he was a Devon man, And ruled the Devon seas. Captain, art the sleepin' there below, Roven though his death fell, He went with heart at ease, And dreamin' Arl the time o' Plymouth ho, Take my drum to England, Hang it by the shore, Strike it when your powders runnin' low, If the dawn sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' heaven, And drum them up the channel, As we drum them long ago. Drake, he's in his hammock Till the great armad us come, Captain, art the sleepin' there below, Slung atween the round-shot, Listenin' for the drum, And dreamin' Arl the time o' Plymouth ho, Call him on the deep sea, Call him up the sound, Call him when you sail To meet the foe, Where the old trades plyin' And the old flags flyin', They shall find him where Unwakin' as they found him long ago. Henry Newbolt End of Poem The moon is up, poems of today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The moon is up, the stars are bright, The wind is fresh and free. We're out to seek for gold tonight, Across the silver sea. The world was growing gray and old, Break out the sails again. We're out to seek a realm of gold, Beyond the Spanish main. We're sick of all the cringing knees, The courtly smiles and lies, God, let thy singing channel breeze, Lighten our hearts and eyes. Let love no more be bought and sold, For earthly loss or gain. We're out to seek an age of gold, Beyond the Spanish main. Beyond the light of far cafe, Beyond all mortal dreams, Beyond the reach of night and day, Our El Dorado gleams, Revealing, as the skies unfold, A star without a stain, The glory of the gates of gold, Beyond the Spanish main. Alfred Noise End of Poem Minora Sedera, Poems of Today, An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sitting at times over a hearth that burns, With dull domestic glow, My thought, leaving the book, Gratefully turns, To you who planned it so, Not of the great only you dane to tell, The stars by which we steer, But lights out of the night, The flashed and fell, To night again are here, Such as were those dogs of an elder day, Who sacked the golden ports, And those later who dared grapple their prey, Beneath the harbour forts, Some would flag at the fore, Sweeping the world, To find an equal fight, And some who joined war to their trade, And hurled ships of the line in flight. Whether their fame centuries long Should ring, they cared not over much, But cared greatly to serve God and the king, And keep the Nelson touch, And fought to build Britain above the tide Of wars in windy fate, And past content leaving to us the pride Of lives obscurely great. Henry Newbolt End of Poem Musing on a great soldier, Palms of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Fear? Yes, I heard you saying, In an Oxford common room, Where the hearthlights kindly reying Stripped the impaneled walls of gloom, Silver groves of candles playing In the soft wine-turn to bloom. At the word I see you now, Blandly push the wine-boat's prow, Round the mirror of that scored Yellow old mahogany board. I confess to one fear, this, To be buried alive. My lord, your fancy has played a mess, Fear not, when in farewell, While guns toll like a bell, And the bell tolls like a gun, Westminster Towers call Folk and state to your funeral, And robed in honors warn Beneath the cloudy pile Of the lifted shreds of glory, You lie in the last stall, Of that grey dormitory, Fear not less mad, Miss Chance, should find you lapped And shrouded, Alive in helpless trance, Though seeming death be clouded. For long ere so you rest, On that transcendent beer, Shall we not have addressed, One summons, one last test, To your reluctant ear? Oh, believe it, we shall have uttered, In ultimate entreaty, A name your soul would hear, How so ever thickly shuttered, We shall have stooped and muttered, England, in your cold ear, Then, if your greatest pulse leap, No more, nor your cheek burn, Enough, then shall we learn, Tissed time for us to weep, Herbert trench. End of poem He fell among thieves, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Ye have robbed, said he, Ye have slaughtered and made an end. Take your ill-got plunder and bury the dead. What will ye more of your guest and sometimes friend? Blood for our blood, they said. He laughed. If one may settle the score for five, I am ready, but let the reckoning stand till day. I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive. You shall die at dawn, said they. He flung his empty revolver down the slope. He climbed alone to the eastward edge of the trees. All night long in a dream untroubled of hope, He brooded, clasping his knees. He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills, The ravine where the Yassin River sullenly flows. He did not see the starlight on the lasper hills, Or the far afghan snows. He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wisteria trailing in at the window wide. He heard his father's voice from the terrace below, Calling him down to ride. He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honored dead, The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red. He saw the school clothes, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all. He saw the dark wainscote and timbered roof, The long tables and the faces Mary and King, The college eight and their trainer dining aloof, The dawn's on, the dais serene. He watched the liner's stem plowing the foam. He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw. He heard her passengers' voices talking of home. He saw the flag she flew. And now it was dawn he rose, strong on his feet, And strode to his ruined camp below the wood. He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet, His murderers round him stood. Light on the Larkspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow peaks chilled to a dazzling white. He turned and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the eastern height. O glorious life, who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore thee. A sword swept over the pass, the voices one by one, Faded and the hill slept. Henry Newbolt. End of Poem. England. Poems of today. An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Shall we but turn from braggart pride, Our race to cheapen and defame, Before the world to wail to chide, And weakness as with vaunting claim, Ur the hour strikes to abdicate, The steadfast spirit that made us great, And rail was scalding tongues at fate, If England's heritage indeed, be lost, be traded quite away, For fatted sloth and fevered greed, If inly rotting we decay, Suffer we then what doom we must, But silent as befits the dust, Of them who chastement was just, But rather England rally thou, Whatever breeze of faith that still, Within thee keeps the undying vow, And dedicates the constant will, For such yet lives, if not among, The boasters or the loud of tongue, Who cry that England's knell is rung, The fault of heart, the small of brain, In thee but their own image find. Beyond such thoughts as these contain, A mightier presence is enshrined, Nor meaner than their birthright roam, Shall these thy latest sons be shown, So thou but use them for thy own. But those great spirits burning high, In our homes heaven, thy shall be stars, To shine when all is history, And rumour of old idle wars, By all those hearts which proudly bled, To make this rose of England red, The living, the triumphant, dead. By all who suffered and stood fast, That freedom might the weak uphold, And in men's ways of wreck and waste, Just as her awful flower unfold, By all who out of grief and rung, In passion's art of noble song, May beauty to our speech belong, By those adventurous ones who went, Forth overseas and self-exiled, Sought from far isle and continent, Another England in the wild, For whom no drum's beat yet they fought, Alone in courage of a thought, Which an unbounded future wrought, Ye and yet more by those to-day, Who toil and serve for not of gain, That in thy pure glory they may melt their ardor And their pain, by these and by the faith of these, The faith that glorifies and frees, Thy land's call on thee and thy seas. If though hast sin shall we forsake, Thee or the less account as thine, Thy sores, thy shames on us we take, Flies not for us thy fame and sign, Be ours to cleanse and to atone, No man his burden bears alone. England our best shall be thy own, Lift up thy cause into the light, Put all the factitious lips to shame, Our loves, our face, our hopes unite, And strike into a single flame, Whatever from without be tied, O purify the soul of pride, In us thy slumbers cast aside, And of thy sons be justified. Lawrence Binion End of Poem The Volunteer Poems of today and anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He leapt to arms unbidden, unneeded, overbold. His faith by earth is hidden. His heart in earth is cold. Curse on the reckless daring, that could not wait the call. The proud fantastic bearing, that would be first to fall. O tears of human passion, blur not the image true. This was not Folly's fashion. This was the man we knew. Henry Newbolt End of Poem Many sisters, too many brothers. Poems of today and anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. When we fought campaigns, in the long Christmas rains, With soldiers spread in troops on the floor, I shot as straight as you, my losses were as few, My victories as many or more, And went in naval battle amid cannon's rattle, Fleet met fleet in the bath, My cruisers were as trim, my battleships as grim, My submarines cut as swift a path, Or when it rained too long, and the strength of the strong, Surged up and broke away with blows. I was as fit and keen, my fists hit as clean. Your black eye matched my bleeding nose. Was there a scrap or ploy in which you, the boy, Could better me, you could not climb higher, Ride straighter, run as quick, And to smoke made you sick. But I sit here, and you're under fire. Oh, it's you that have the luck, out there in blood and muck. You were born beneath a kindly star. All we dreamt, I and you, you can really go and do, And I can't, the way things are. In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting, A hopeless sock that never gets done. Well, here's luck, my dear, and you've got it, no fear. But for me a war is poor fun. Rose Macaulay, end of poem. The Defenders, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. His wage of rest at nightfall still, He takes, who sixty years has known, Of plowing over Cotsel Hill, And keeping trim the Cotsel Stone. He meditates the dusk, and sees, Folds of his wanted shepherings, And lands of stubble and tall trees, Becoming insubstantial things. And does he see, on Cotsel Hill, Thrown even to the central shire, The funneled shapes forbidding still, The stranger from his cottage fire. John Drinkwater, end of poem. The Dead, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvelously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness, dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colors of the earth. These had seen movement, and heard music known, Slumber and waking, loved, gone proudly friended, Felt the quick stir of wonder, sat alone, Touch flowers and furs and cheeks, all this is ended. There are waters blown, by changing winds to laughter, And lit by the rich skies all day and after. Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance, And wandering loveliness, he leaves a white, Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. Rupert Brooke, end of poem. The Soldier, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. If I should die, think only this of me. That there's some corner of a foreign field, That is for ever England, there shall be, In that rich earth a richer dust concealed, A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blessed by sons of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, known less, Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given, Her sights and sounds, dreams happy as her day, And laughter, learnt of friends and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke, end of poem. For the fallen, poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. With proud thanksgiving a mother for her children. England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. So long the drums thrill, death august and royal, Sing sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation, And glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young. Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted. They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again. They sit no more at familiar tables of home. They have no lot in our labour of the daytime. They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a wall spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known, As the stars are known to the night. As the stars that shall be bright when we are duet, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain. As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end they remain. Lawrence Benion End of Poem Shadows and Light Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. What gods have met in battle to arouse, This whirling shadow of invisible things. These hosts that wreathe amid the shattered sods, O father and o mother of the gods. Is there some trouble in the heavenly house? We who are captained by its unseen kings. Wonder what thrones are shaken in the skies? What powers who held dominion or our will? Let fall the scepter, and what destinies? The younger gods may drive us to fulfill. Have they not swayed us, earth's invisible lords, With whispers and with breathings from the dark? The very border stones of nations, mark, Where silence swallowed some wild prophet's words, That rang but for an instant and were still, Yet were so birtherned with eternity. They matted all who heard to work their will, To raise the lofty temple on the hill, And many a glittering thicket of keen swords, Flashed out to make one law for land and sea, That earth might move with heaven in company. The cities that too married beauty grew, Were altars raised unto old gods who died, And they were sacrificed in ruins too. The younger gods who took their place of pride. They have no brotherhood, the deified, No high companionship of throne by throne. But will their beauty still to be alone? What is a nation but a multitude, United by some god-begotten mood, Some hope of liberty or dream of power, That have not with each other brotherhood, But ward in spirit from their natal hour, Their hatred god-begotten as their love, Reverberations of eternal strife, For all that fury breathed in human life? Are ye not guilty, answer ye above? Ah, no, the circle of the heavenly ones, That ring of burning grave in flexible powers, Array in harmony amid the deep, The shining legionnaires of the suns, That through their day from dawn to twilight keep, The peace of heaven and have no feuds like ours, The morning stars their labours of the dawn, Close at the advent of the solar kings, And these with joy their sceptres yield, Withdrawn when the still evening stars begin their reign. And twilight time is thrilled with homing wings, To the all-father being turned again. No, not on high begin divergent ways, The galaxies of interlinked lights, Rejoicing on each other's beauty gaze, Tis we who do make air in all the rays, That stream upon us from the astral heights, Love in our thickened air to redly burns, And unto vanity our beauty turns, Wisdom that gently whispers us to part, From evil swells to hatred in the heart, Dark is the shadow of invisible things. On us who look not up, whose vision fails, The glorious shining of the heavenly kings, To mold us in their image not avails, They weave a robe of many-colored fire, To garb the spirits thronging in the deep, And in the upper air its splendors keep, Pure and unsolid but below it trails, Darkling and glimmering in our earthy mire. With eyes bent ever earthwards we are swayed, But by the shadows of eternal light, And shadow against shadow is arrayed, So that one dark may dominate the night, Though kindred are the lights that cast the shade, We look not up nor see how, side by side, The high originals of all are pride, In crowned and septored brotherhood are thrown, Compassionate of our blindness and our hate, That own the godship but the love disowned, Ah, let us for a little while abate, The outward roving eye and seek within, Where spirit unto spirit is allied, There in our inmost being we may win, The joyful vision of the heavenly wise, To see the beauty in each other's eyes. A.E. End of poem Brumanna Poems of today, an anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. O shall I never, never be home again, Meadows of England shining in the rain, Spread wide your daisy lawns, your ramparts green, With briar fortify, with bossam screen, Till my far morning and o' streams that slow, And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, For me your love and all your king-cup store, And dark militia of the southern shore, Old fragrant friends preserve me, the last lines, Of that long saga which you sang me pines, When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree, I listened with my eyes upon the sea. O traitor pines, you saying what life has found, The falsest of fair tales, Earth blue of far horn prelude all around, That native music of her forest home, While from the seas blue fields and siren dails, Shadows and light noon, sceptres of the foam, Riding the summer gales, on airy vials, Plot and idle sound. Hearing you sing, O trees, hearing you murmur, There are older seas that beat on faster sands, Where the wise snailfish move their pearly towers, To carven rocks and sculptured promontories, Hearing you whisper, lands, where blaze the unimaginable flowers, Beneath me in the valley waves the palm, Beneath beyond the valley breaks the sea, Beneath me sleep in mist and light and calm, Cities of Lebanon dream shadow dim, Where kings of Tyre and kings of Tyre did rule, In ancient days in endless dynasty, And all around the snowy mountains swim, Like mighty swans afloat in heaven's pool, But I will walk upon the wooded hill, Where stands a grove, o' pines of sister pines, And when the downy twilight droops her wing, And no sea glimmers and no mountain shines, My heart shall listen still, for pines are gossip pines, The wide world through, and full of runic tales, To sigh or sing, tis ever sweet through pines, To see the sky, blushing a deeper gold or darker blue, Tis ever sweet to lie on the dry carpet of the needles brown, And though the fanciful green lizard stir, And when the odors light as thistle down, Breathe from the lav-danon and lavender, Have to forget the wandering and pain, Have to remember days that have gone by, And dream and dream that I am home again. James L. Roy Flecker End of poem A like-wake carol, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Grow old and die, rich day, Over some English field, chartered to come away, What time to death you yield! Pass, frost-white ghost, and then, come forth to banished men! I see the stubble sheen, the mist and ruddled leaves, Here where the new spring's green, For her first raindrops grieves, Here beech and leaves drift red, Last week in England dead, For English eyes delight, those autumn ghosts go free, Ghost of the field whore write, Ghost of the crimson tree, grudge them not, England dear, to us thy banished hear! Arthur Shearley, Crips End of poem A refrain, poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Tell the tune his feet beat, On the ground all day, Black burnt ground and green grass, Seemed with rocks of gray, England, England, England, That one word they say, Now they tread the beech mast, Now the plowlands clay, Now the fairy ball-floor of her fields in May, Now her red-june sorrel, now her new-turned hay, Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray, Still it's England, England, England all the way. Arthur Shearley, Crips End of poem Where a Roman villa stood, Above Freeburg, Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. On alien ground breathing an alien air, A Roman stood far from his ancient home, And gazing murmured, Ah, the hills are fair, But not the hills of Rome. Descendant of a race to Romans kin, Where the old sun of empire stood, I stand, the self-same rocks fold the same valley in, Untouched of human hand. Over another shines the self-same star, Another heart with nameless longing fills, Crying aloud how beautiful they are, But not our English hills. Mary E. Coolridge End of poem Heights and Depths Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. He walked in glory on the hills, We Dale's men envied from afar, The heights and rows lit pinnacles, Which placed him nigh the evening star. Upon the peaks they found him dead, And now we wonder if he sighed, For our low grass beneath his head, For our root huts before he died. William Canton End of poem In the Highlands Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. In the Highlands, In the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens' quiet eyes, Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And forever in the hill recesses, Her more lovely music broods and dies, O, to mount again where erst I haunted, Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low-green meadows bright with sword, And when even dies the million tinted, And the night has come and planets glinted, Low the valley hollow lamps be starred, O, to dream, O, to awake and wander, There and with the light to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath, Low for there among the flowers and grasses, Only the might-hear movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, life and death. Robert Louis Stevenson End of poem In city streets Poems of today, An anthology by various authors, This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, Drink for one at thirst, write blackberries to eat, Yonder in the sun the merry hairs go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearyed feet, Sorely throb my feet, a tramping London highways, Ah, the springy moss upon a northern moor, Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the city, poor among the poor, London streets are gold, ah, give me leaves and glinting, Mid-scraped dykes and hedges in the autumn sun, London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting, God, for the little brooks that tumble as they run, Oh, my heart is vain to hear the soft wind blowing, Sowing through the fir-trops up on northern fells, Oh, my eyes and ache to see the brown burns flowing, Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather bells. Ada Smith END OF POMME Margaret's song, Poems of Today, An anthology by various authors, This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. To soothe and mild your lowland airs, For one whose hope is gone, I'm thinking of a little tarn, Brown, very lone. Would now the toss with miss could lay, Their wet grasp on my hair, And the great natures of the hills round me friendly were, In vain, for taking hills your plains, Have spoilt my soul, I think, But would my feet were going down toward the brown tarn's brink? Lacelle's Abercrombie END OF POMME To S. R. Crockett, Poems of Today, An anthology by various authors, This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Blows the wind to-day, And the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs, The what-ups are crying? My heart remembers how, Gray recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds austere and pure. Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home and to hear again the call, Hear about the graves of the martyrs, The pee-wees crying, And hear no more at all. Robert Louis Stevenson END OF POMME CHILLINGHAM Poems of Today, An anthology by various authors, This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. 1. Through the sunny garden, The humming-bees are still, The fur climbs the heather, The heather climbs the hill, The low clouds have riven, A little rift through, The hill climbs to heaven, Far away and blue. 2. O the high valley, The little low hill, And the cornfield over the sea, The wind that rages, And then lies still, And the clouds that rest and flee. O the great island in the rainbow haze, And the long thin spits of land, The roughening pastures and the stony ways, And the golden flash of the sand. O the red heather on the moss-rock-rock, And the fir-tree stiff and straight, The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock, And the rotten old five-barred gate. O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough, The scent of the gorse in the air, I shall love them ever as I love them now, I shall weary in heaven to be there. 3. Strike life a happy hour, And let me live, But in that grace I shall have gathered All the world can give. Unending time and space, Bring light and air, The thin and shining air of the Northland, The light that falls on tower and garden there, Close to the gold sea-sand. Bring flowers, the latest colors of the earth, Or none like frost. They her hard hand upon this rainbow mirth, With twinkling emerald crust. The white star of the traveller's joy, The deep in purple rays That hide the smoky stone. The delia rooted in Egyptian sleep, The last frail rose alone. Let music whisper from a casement set, By them of old, where the light smell Of lavender may yet rise from the soft loose mold. Then shall I know, with eyes and ears awake, Not in bright liens, The joy my Heavenly Father joys to make, For men who grieve in dreams. Mary E. Coleridge End of poem Sussex Poems of today An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. God gave all men all earth to love, But since our hearts are small, Or dain for each one spot should prove, Beloved over all, That as he watched creation's birth, So we, in God-like mood, May our love create our earth, And see that it is good. So one shall Baltic pines content, As one some Suri glade, Or one the palm-groves droned lament, Before Lufka's trade. Each to his choice, and I rejoice, The lot has fallen to me, In a fair ground, in a fair ground, Ye Sussex by the sea. No tender-hearted garden crowns, No boozomed woods adorn, Our blunt bow-headed wail back-downs, But gnarled and rhythm thorn. Bare slopes where chasing shadow-skim, And through the gaps revealed, Belt upon belt the wooded dim, Blue goodness of the weld. Clean of officious fence or hedge, Half wild and holy tame, The wise turf cloaks the white-cliff edge, As when the Romans came. What sign of those that fought and died, At shift a sword and sword? The barrow and the camp abide, The sunlight and the sword. Here leaps ashore the full south-west, All heavy winged with brine. Here lies above the folded crest, The channels let in line. And here the sea-fogs lap and cling, And here each warning each. The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring, Along the hidden beach. We have no waters to delight, Our broad and brookless veils, Only the dew-pond on the height, Unfed that never fails. Whereby no tattered herbage tells, Which way the season flies, Only our close bit time that smells, Like dawn in paradise. Here through the strong unhampered days, The tinkling silence thrills, Or little lost down churches praise, The Lord who made the hills. But here the old gods guard their round, And in her secret heart The heathen kingdom Wilfred found, Dreams as she dwells apart. Though all the rest were all my share, With equal soul I'd see, Her nine and thirty sisters fair, Yet none more fair than she. Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed, And I will choose instead. Such lands as lie, Twix rake and rye, Black down and beachy head. I will go out against the sun, Where the rolled-scarp retires, And the long man of Wilmington Looks naked toward the shires, And east till doubling roather-crawls, To find the fickle tide. By dry and sea-forgotten walls Are ports of stranded pride. I will go north about the shaws, And the deep gills that breed. Huge oaks and old, the which we hold, Know more than Sussex weed. Or south where windy pitting hoes Begolded dolphin veers, And black beside white-banked oaks, Lie down our Sussex steers. So to the land our hearts we give, Till the shore magic strike, And memory, use, and love make live Us and our fields alike, That deeper than our speech and thought, Beyond our reasons sway. Clay of the pit, whence we were wrought, Yarns to its fellow clay. God gives all men all earth the love, But since men's heart is small, Ordains for each one spot Shall prove beloved over all. Each to his choice, and I rejoice, The lot has fallen to me, In a fair ground, in a fair ground, Ye Sussex by the sea. Rudyard Kipling End of Poem The South Country Poems of today An anthology by various authors. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. When I am living in the Midlands, That are sodden and unkind. I light my lamp in the evening, My work is left behind, And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind. The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea, And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be. And the men that were boys When I was a boy, walking along with me, The men that live in North England, I saw them for a day. Their hearts are set upon the wastefells, Their skies are fast and gray. From their castle walls a man may see, The mountains far away. The men that live in West England, They see the Severin strong. A rolling on rough water brown, Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise. They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes. Come surely from our sister the spring, When over the sea she flies. The violet suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines, But I smell the Sussex air. Nor I never come on a belt of sand, But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the downs, So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend. And I fear I shall be all alone, When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me, Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends, Of the men of the Sussex world. They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plow the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch, To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung, And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood, Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys, When I was a boy, Shall sit and drink with me. Hillier Baloch End of Poem Gentslebury Ring Poems of Today An anthology by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Say what you will, There is not in the world A nobler sight than from this up or down. No rugged landscape here, No beauty hurled From its creator's hand, As with a frown. But a green plain, On which green hills look down, Trim as a garden plot, No other hue, Can hence be seen, Save here and there the brown Of a square follow, And the horizons blue. Dear checker work of woods, The Sussex wheeled, If a name thrills me yet Of things of earth, That name is thine, How often I have fled To thy deep hedge-rows And embraced each field, Each leg, each pasture, Fields which give me birth, And saw my youth, And which must hold me dead. Wilford Blunt End of Poem In Romney Marsh Poems of today An anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. As I went down to dim church wall I heard the so-sing or the land I saw the yellow sunlight fall On knolls where Norman churches stand And ringing shrilly taut and lithe Within the wind a core of sound The wire from Romney town to Hyth Alone its airy journey wound A veil of purple vapor flowed And trailed its fringe along the straits The upper air like sapphire glowed And roses filled heaven's central gates Mass in the offing waged their tops The swinging waves peeled on the shore The saffron beach all diamond drops And beads of surge prolonged the roar As I came up from dim church wall I saw above the downs low crest The crimson brands of sunset fall Flicker and fade from out the west Night sank like flakes of silver fire The stars in one great shower came down Shrill blew the wind and shrill the wire Rang out from Hyth to Romney town The darkly shining salt sea drops Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore The beach with all its organ stops Peeling again prolonged the roar John Davidson End of poem A sink port Palms of today An anthology by various authors This Thebra Vox recording is in the public domain Below the down, the stranded town What may be tied for lonely waits With memories of smoky skies When Gaelic navies crossed the straits When waves with fire and blood grew bright And cannon thundered through the night With swinging stride, the rhythmic tide Bore to the harbor, bark and sloop Across the bar, the ship of war In castled stern and lanterned poop Came up with conquest on her lee The stately mistress of the sea Where argoses have wooed the breeze The simple sheep are feeding now And near and far across the bar The plowmen whistles at the plow Where once the long waves washed the shore Larked from their lowly lodging soar Below the down, the stranded town Hear far away the rollers beat About the wall, the seabirds call The saltwind murmurs through the street Forlorn the seas for staken bride Awaits the end that shall be tied John Davidson End of Poem Essex Poems of today An anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain I go through the fields of blue water On the south road of the sea High to north the east country Holds her green fields to me For she that I gave over Gives not over me Last night I lay at good Easter Under a hedge I knew Last night beyond high Easter I trod the may floors blue Tilt from the sea the sun came Bidding me wake and row Rotting, that names a church's Banks with the pagals diet Chomer whose mill and willows Keep one red tower in sight Under the southern cross run Beside the ship tonight Ah, I may not seek back now Neither be turned nor stayed Yet should I live I'd seek her Once that my fowls are paid And should I die I'd haunt her I being what God made England has greater counties Their peace to hers is small Low hills rich fields calm rivers In Essex seek them all Essex where I that found them Found to lose them all Arthur sheerly crips End of poem A town window Poems of today An anthology by various authors This the Brevox recording is in the public domain Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab in glorious street Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over warwick woods are sweet Under the gray drift of the town The crocus works among the mold As eagerly as those that crown The warwick spring in flame and gold And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles, moans, and rings There is about my window sill The tumult of a thousand wings John drink water End of poem Mambel Poems of today An anthology by various authors This the Brevox recording is in the public domain I never went to Mambel That lies above the tem So I wonder who's in Mambel And whether people seem Who breed and brew along there As lazy as the name And whether any song there Sets ill house wits aflame The finger post says Mambel And that is all I know Of the narrow road to Mambel And should I turn and go To that place of lazy token That lies above the tem There might be a Mambel broken That was Lissom in a dream So leave the road to Mambel And take another road To as good a place as Mambel Be it lazy as a toad Who travels worcester country Takes any place that comes When April tosses bounty To the cherries and the plums John drink water End of poem Plymouth harbour Poems of today An anthology by various authors This the Brevox recording is in the public domain Oh what know they of harbors Who toss not on the sea They tell a fairer havens But none so fair there be As Plymouth town outstretching Her quiet arms to me Her breast-broad welcome spreading From Meustown to Penley Ah, with this home thought darling Come crowding thoughts of thee Oh what know they of harbors Who toss not on the sea Ernest Radford End of poem Oxford poems of today An anthology by various authors This the Brevox recording is in the public domain I came to Oxford in the light Of a spring-coloured afternoon Some clouds were grey and some were white And all were blown to such a tune Of quiet rapture in the sky I laughed to see them laughing by I had been dreaming in the train With thoughts at random from my book I looked and read and looked again And suddenly to greet my look Oxford shone up with every tower Aspiring sweetly like a flower Home turned the feet of men that seek And home the hearts of children turn And none can teach the hour to speak What every hour is free to learn And all discover late or soon Their golden Oxford afternoon Gerald Gold End of poem Alma Mater Poems of today An anthology by various authors This the Brevox recording is in the public domain Know you her secret none can utter Hers of the book the tripled crown Still on the spire the pigeons flutter Still by the gateway flits the gown Still on the street from corbel and gutter Faces of stone look down Faces of stone and stonier faces Some from the library windows wand Fourth on her gardens her green spaces Peer and turn to their books and on Hints my muse from the green osse's Gather the tent be gone Nay should she by the pavement legger Under the rooms where once she played Who from the feast would rise to fling her One poor soul for her serenade One short laugh for the antique finger Thrumming a lute string frayed Once my dear but the world was young then Madeline Elms and Trinity Limes Listen the blades and the backs that swung then Eight good men in the good old times Careless we and the chorus flung then Under St. Mary's chimes Reins lay loose and the ways led random Christ's church meadow an iffy track Idleness horrid and dog cart Tandem Ailsbury grind and bychester pack Pleasant are lives and faith we scandom Having that artless snack Come old limmer the times grow colder Leaves of the creeper redden and fall Was it a hand that clapped my shoulder Only the wind by the chapel wall Dead leaves drift on the lute So fold her under the faded shawl Never we wince though none deplore us We who go reaping that we sowed Cities at cock crow wait before us Hey for the lilt of the London road One look back and a rousing chorus Never a pal anode Still on her spire the pigeons hover Still by her gateway haunts the gown Ah but her secret you young lover Drumming her old ones forth from town No you the secret none discover Tell it when you go down Yet if at length you seek her prove her Lean to her whispers never so nigh Yet if at last not less her lover You enter your handsome leave the high Down from her towers a ray shall hover Touch you up past her by Arthur quiller couch End of poem From dedicatory owed poems of today By various authors this LibriVox recording Is in the public domain I will not try the reach again I will not set my sail alone To moor a boat bereft of men At yarn-tons tiny docks of stone But I will sit beside the fire And put my hand before my eyes And trace to fill my heart's desire The last of all are odysseys The quiet evening capped her trist Beneath an open sky we rode And passed into a wandering mist Along the perfect even-load The tender even-load that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the breaks And binds my heart to English ground A lovely river all alone She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stone Forgotten in the western woods Hilaire Baloch End of poem The devourers poems of today An anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Cambridge town is a beleaguered city For south and north like a sea There beat on its gates Without haste or pity The downs and the thin country Cambridge towers so old so wise They were builded but yesterday Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes That smiled as at children's play Road south of Cambridge run into the waste Where learning and lamps are not And the pale down's tumble blind chalk-faced And the brooding church's squat Roads north of Cambridge march through a plain Level like the traitor sea It will swallow its ships and turn and smile again The insatiable thin country Lest the downs and the fens should eat Cambridge up And its towers be tossed and thrown And its rich wine drunk from its broken cup And its beauty no more known Let us come, you and I, where the roads run blind Out beyond the transient city That our love mingling with earth may find Her imperishable heart of pity Rose Macaulay End of poem The Old Vicarage, Grant Chester Poems of today An anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Café de Weston, Berlin Just now the lilac is in bloom All before my little room And in my flower beds I think Smile the carnation and the pink And down the borders, well, I know The poppy and the pansy blow Oh, there the chestnuts summer through Beside the river make for you A tunnel of green gloom and sleep Deeply above and green and deep The stream mysterious glides beneath Green as a dream and deep as death Oh, damn, I know it and I know How the Mayfields all golden show And when the day is young and sweet Gild gloriously the bare feet That run to bathe to Lieber Gott Here am I sweating, sick and hot And there the shadowed waters fresh Lean up to embrace the naked flesh Temperamentfall, German Jews Drink beer around and there the dews Are soft beneath a morn of gold Here tulips bloom as they are told Unkempt about those hesjes blows An English unofficial rose And there the unregulated sun Slows down to rest when day is done And wakes a vague unpunctual star A slippered hefster And there are Meads towards hassling field and cotton Where dask betrins not verboten Eth genoem would I were In Grantchester, in Grantchester Some it may be can get in touch With nature there or earth or such And clever modern men have seen A fawn of peeping through the green And felt the classics were not dead To glimpse a night's greedy head Or hear the goat foot piping low But these are things I do not know I only know that you may lie Day long and watch the Cambridge sky And flower lulled in sleepy grass Hear the cool lapse of hours pass Until the centuries blend and blur In Grantchester, in Grantchester Still in the dawn-lit waters cool His ghostly lordship swims his pool And tries the strokes, essays the tricks Long learnt on Hell's Pond or Styx Don Chaucer hears his river still Chatter beneath a phantom mill Tennyson notes with studious eye How Cambridge waters hurry by And in that garden black and white Creep whispers through the grass all night And spectral dance before the dawn A hundred vickers down the lawn Curates long dust will come and go On lissum clerical, printless toe And off between the boughs is seen The sly shade of a rural dean Till at a shiver in the skies Vanishing with satanic cries The prim ecolastic rout Leaves but estartled sleeper out Gray heavens the first birds drowsy calls The falling house that never falls God, I will pack and take a train And get me to England once again For England's the one land I know where men with splendid hearts may go And Cambridge sure of all England The shire for men who understand And of that district I prefer The lovely Hamlet Grant Chester For Cambridge people rarely smile Being urban squat and packed with guile And Royston men in the far south Are black and fierce and strange of mouth At over they fling osse at one And worse than osse at trumpington And ditten girls are mean and dirty And there's none in Harston under thirty And folks in Shefford and these parts Have twisted lips and twisted hearts And Barton men make cockney rhymes And cottons full of nameless crimes And things are done you'd not believe At mattingly on Christmas eve Strong men have run from miles and miles When one from Cherry Hinton smiles Strong men have blanched and shot their wives Rather than send them to St. Ives Strong men have cried like babes But damn to hear what happened at Bobra Ham But Grant Chester, ah Grant Chester There's peace and holy quiet there Great clouds along Pacific skies And men and women with straight eyes Live children lovelier than a dream A bosky wood, a slumberous stream And little kindly winds that creep Round twilight corners half asleep In Grant Chester their skins are white They bathe by day, they bathe by night The women there do all they ought The men observe the rules of thought They love the good, they worship truth They laugh uproariously in youth And when they get to feeling old They up and shoot themselves, I'm told Ah God to see the Grant Chester Across the moon at Grant Chester To smell the thrilling sweet and rotten Unforgettable, unforgotten River smell and hear the breeze Sobbing in the little trees Say do the elm clumps greatly stand Still guardians of that holy land The chestnut shade in reverent dream The yet unacademic stream Is dawn a secret shy and cold And a domain silver-gold And sunset still a golden sea From hasing field to mattingly And after air the night is born Do hairs come out about the corn O is the water sweet and cool Gentle and brown above the pool And laughs the immortal river still Under the mill, under the mill Say is there beauty yet to find And certainty and quiet kind Deep medals yet for to forget The lies and truths and pain, oh yet Stands the church clock at ten to three And is there honey still for tea Rupert Brooke End of poem Days that have been Poems of today and anthology By various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Can I forget the sweet days that have been When poetry first began to warm my blood When from the hills of Gwent I saw the earth Burned into two by severance silver flood When I would go alone at night to see The moonlight like a big white butterfly Dreaming on that old castle near Carolina while at its side the usek went softly by When I would stare at lovely clouds in heaven Or watch them when reported by deep streams When feeling pressed like thunder but would not break Into that grand music of my dreams Can I forget the sweet days that have been The villages so green I have been in Lan-tarem, Magor, Malpas, Ann, Lanwern This weary old carillon Ann, I'll turn Can I forget the banks of Malpas, Brooke Or Ible's voice in such a wild delight As on he dashed with pebbles in his throat Gurgling towards the sea with all his might Ah, when I see a leafy village now I sigh and ask it for Lan-tarnam's green I ask each river where is Ible's voice In memory of the sweet days that have been William H. Davies End of poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree Poems of today an anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain 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 honey bee 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's midnight's all a glimmer, and noon 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 W. B. Yeats End of poem The Flowers Poems of today an anthology by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain By English Poesies Kent and Suri May Violets of the undercliff, wet with channel spray Cow slips from a Devon comb Midland furs a fire By my English Poesies And I'll sell your heart's desire By my English Poesies You that scorn the May Won't you greet a friend from home, half the world away Green against the dragon drift, faint and frail and first By my northern blood root And I'll know where you were nursed Robin down the logging road, whistles come to me Spring has found the maple grove, the sap is running free All the winds of Canada call the plowing rain Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again By my English Poesies Here's to match your need Buy a tuft of royal heath Buy a bunch of weed Wait a sand of messenberg Spurn before the gale Buy my heath and lilies And I'll tell you whence you hail Under hot Constantina Broad the vineyard's lie Throne and thorn the aching burg Props the speckless sky Slow before the wind-burg furs Trails the tilted whine Take the flower and turn the hour And kiss your love again Buy my English Poesies You that will not turn Buy my hotwood comatose Buy a front of fern Gathered where the earth's kind leaps Down the road to Lorne Buy my Christmas creeper And I'll say where you were born West away from Melbourne Dust holidays begin They that mock at paradise Woo at Coralyn Through the great South Ottaway Gum sings the great South Main Take the flower and turn the hour And kiss your love again Buy my English Poesies Here's your choice unsold Buy a blood-red myrtle bloom Buy the Coe High's gold Flung for gift on Taupo's face Sign that spring is come Buy my clinging myrtle And I'll give you back your home Brune behind the windy town Pollen on the pine Bellbird in the leafy deep Where the ratus twine Furn above the saddlebow Flax upon the plain Take the flower and turn the hour And kiss your love again Buy my English Poesies Yee that have your own Buy them for a brother's sake Overseas, alone Weed yee trample underfoot Floods his heart abrim Bird yee never heeded Oh, she calls his dead to hymn Far and far our homes are set Round the seven seas Woo for us if we forget We that hold by these Unto each his mother beach Bloom and bird and land Masters of the seven seas O love and understand Rudyard Kipling End