 The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe, recorded for the bravox.org by Sherty Gull. Upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many acquaintances curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more. Aw, I distinctly remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished to borrow, mainly I had sought to borrow, for my books are cease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Nameless here, forevermore, and the silken sad and certain wrestling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now, to still the beady of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor,' treating entrance at my chamber door, "'Tis some late visitor,' and treating entrance at my chamber door, this it is, nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer. Serves that I, or Madam, truly are forgiveness I implore, but the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. That I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door, darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming, dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence wasn't broken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, the nor. This I whispered, and in echo more back the word, the nor. Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before. "'Surely,' said I, "'Surely that is someone at my window lattice. Let me see then what there at is, and this mystery explore. Will my heart be still a moment in this mystery explore?' Tis the wind, and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, wind with many a flurgeon flutter, in their step to stately raving up the stately days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not an instant stop to stay here, but with mine of Lord a lady perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of palacesched above my chamber door. Nothing sat, and nothing more. Tis this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy in his smiling, by the graven-stone decorum of the countenance of war. "'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, art sure no craven, gas-like grim and agent-raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore.' "'Quote the raven. Nevermore.' Much I marveled this ungainly fowl, to hear a discourse so plainly thought, its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore, for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door. Bird or beast upon the sculpted bust upon his chamber door. With such name is nevermore. But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word as if his soul, in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered. Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, Nevermore.' Sturdled in stillness, broken by reply, so aptly spoken, doubtless that I, what he uttered, is his only shock in store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmercifully disaster followed, fast and followed faster till his songs won burden bore, till the dirtiest of his hopes, that melancholy burden bore. Of never, nevermore. But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled the cushion seat in front of bird and bust in door. Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking. I stand to fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, and this grim ungainly ghastly gone to an ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking, Nevermore. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining. On the cushion's velvet lining the lamplight gloated over. But whose velvet lining, with the lamplight, gloated over, she shall press, ah, Nevermore. Then, methought, the air-grewed denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by angels whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch! I cried, thy God hath lent thee. By these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite, and dependeth in thy memories of Lenore. Quoth, oh quoth this kind, and dependeth, and forget this lost Lenore. Quote the raven, Nevermore. Prophets that I, thing of evil, profit still, if bird or devil, whether tempter sent, or whether tempter's tossed to be here ashore, desolate yet all daunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home of horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, is there, is there Balm and Gilead, tell me, tell me, I implore. Quoth the raven, Nevermore. Prophets that I, think of evil, profit still, if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden, within the distant aid, and it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the raven, Nevermore. Be that word of sign or parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked up starting, get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie they so have spoken, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door, quoth the raven, Nevermore. And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of palace, just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all the seeming of the demons that is dreaming, and the lamp lay over him, streaming, throws his shadow on the floor, and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted, Evermore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. This is the Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or see a new volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. The Bells by Ed Grail and Poe. Here are the sledges with the bells, silver bells, what a world of merriment their melody foretells, how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night, while the stars that over sprinkle all the heaven seem to twinkle, with a crystalline delight, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the tinted abulation that so musically wells, from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Here are the mellow wedding bells, golden bells, what a world of happiness their harmony foretells, through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight, from the molten gold notes and all in tune, what a liquid diddy floats to the turtle dove that listens while she gloats on the moon. Oh, from out the sounding cells, what a gush of euphony voluminous wells, how it swells, how it dwells on the future, how it tells of the rapture that impells through the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. Here are the loud alarm bells, brazen bells, what a tale of terror now the turbulence he tells, in the startled air of night, how they scream out their fright, too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek out of tune, in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad exfostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire, and a resolute endeavor now, now to sit or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of despair, how they cling and clash and roar, what a horror they outpour, on the bosom of the palpitating air, yet the ear it fully knows, by the twang in the cling, how the danger ebbs and flows, yet the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking in the swelling and the anger of the bells, of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, in the clamour and the clanger of the bells. Here the tolling of the bells, iron bells, what a world of soul and thought their monody compels, in the silence of the night, how we shiver with a fright at the melancholy meaning of their tone, from every sound that flows from the rust within their throats, is a groan in the people, ah, the people, they that dwell up in the steeple all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling in that muffled monotone feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart of stone, they are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human, they are ghouls, and their king is who tolls, and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, a pan from the bells and his merry bosom swells, with the pan of the bells, and he dances and he yells, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, to the pan of the bells, of the bells, keeping time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells bells bells To the sobbing of the bells Keeping time time time As he knells nails nails And the happy runic rhyme And with the roll of the bells of the bells bells bells To the tolling of the bells of the bells bells bells bells bells, to the moaning and the groaning of the bells, and of the bells by Edgar Allen Poe. Ullum by Edgar Allen Poe, recorded for LibriVox.org by Schertigal. The skies they were ashen and sober, the leaves they were crisp and sear, the leaves they were withering and sear, it was night in the lonesome October of my most immemorial year, it was hard by the dim lake of Auber in the misty mid-region of Wehr, it was down by the dank tarn of Auber in the ghoul-haunted woodland of Wehr. Here once, through an alley of titanic, of cypress I roamed with my soul, of cypress with Psyche my soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic, as the scoriac rivers that roll, as the lava slip rests they roll, and their solfress currents down Yannick, and the ultimate climes of the pole, that groan as they roll down Mount Yannick in the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, but our thoughts that were palcid and sear, our memories were treacherous and sear, for I knew not the month was October, and we marked not the night of the year, ah, a night of all nights in the year. We noted not the dim lake of Auber, though once we had journeyed down here, we remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Wehr, and now as the night was senacent, and the star-dials pointed to Morn, as the star-dials hinted of Morn, at the end of our path a lequessent and nebulous luster was born, out of which a miraculous crescent arose with a duplicate horn, and started his bedimond crescent, distinct with his duplicate horn. And I said, she is warmer than Dian, she rolls through an ether of size, she revels in a region of size, she has seen that the tears are not dry on these cheeks, where the worm never dies, and has come past the stars of the lion, to point us the path to the skies, to the lethian piece of the skies. Come up, in despite of the lion, to shine on us with her bright eyes. Come up through the lair of the lion, with love in the luminous eyes. But Psyche, uplifting her finger, said, Sadly this star I mistrust, her pallor I strangely mistrust. Ah, hasten, ah, let us not linger, ah, fly, let us fly, for we must. In terror she spoke, letting sink her wings till it trailed in the dust. In agony sobbed, letting sink her plumes till it trailed in the dust, till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied, this is nothing but dreaming. Let us on by this tremulous light, let us bathe in this crystalline light. Its civil splendor is beaming, with hope and in beauty tonight. See, it flickers up in the sky through the night. Ah, we safely may trust it to its gleaming. And be sure it will lead us aright. We surely may trust to a gleaming that cannot but guide us aright, since it flickers up to heaven through the night. And thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, and I tempted her out of her gloom, and I conquered her scruples and gloom, and we passed through the end of the vista, but were stopped by the door of a tomb, by the door of a legendary tomb, and I said, What has written, sweet sister, on the door of this legendary tomb? She replied, Yululum, Yululum, it is the vault of thy lost Yululum. Then my heart grew ashen and sober, as the leaves that were crisped and ser, as the leaves that were withering and ser, and I cried, it was surely October, on this very night of last year, that I journeyed, I journeyed down here, that I brought a dread burden down here, on this night of all nights in the year. Ah, what demon hath tempted me here? Will I know now this dim lake of Auber, this misty mid-region of where? Will I know now this dank tarn of Auber, this ghoul-haunted woodland of where? Said we then, the two then. Ah, can it have been the woodlandish ghouls, the pitiful and the merciful ghouls, to bar up our way into bannet, from the secret that lies in these woods, from the thing that lies hidden in these woods, have drawn out the specter of a planet, from the limbo of lunarary souls, this sinful, scintillant planet, from the hell of planetary souls. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or to see how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. To Ellen by Edgar Allen Poe. Recorded for LibriVox.org. I saw thee once, once only, years ago, and must not say how many, but not many. It was a July night, and from out a full-orbed moon, that like thine own soul, soaring, sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, there fell a silvery silk-enveiled light, with quietude and sultiness and slumber, upon the upturned faces of a thousand roses that grew in enchanted garden, where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe, fell on the upturned faces of these roses that gave out in return for the love-light their odorous souls in an ecstatic death, fell on the upturned faces of these roses that smiled and died in this patteray enchanted by thee and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white upon a violet bank, I saw thee half reclining while the moon fell on the upturned faces of the roses, and on thine own upturned, alas, in sorrow. Was it not fate that on this July midnight, was it not fate whose name is also sorrow, that bade me pause before the garden gate, to breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footsteps slurred, the hated world unslept. Save only thee and me, O heaven, O God, on my heart beats in coupling those two words. Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked, and in an instant all things disappeared. Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted. The pearly luster of the moon went out, the mossy banks and the meandering paths, the happy flowers and the repining trees, were seen no more. The very roses' odors died in the arms of adoring heirs. All, all expired, save thee, save less than thou. Save only the divine light in thine eyes. Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them. They were the world to me. I saw but them. Saw only them for hours. Saw only them until the moon went down. But wild histories seemed to hean written. Upon those crystalline celestial spheres. How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope. How silently serene a sea of pride. How daring an ambition, yet how deep, how fathomless a capacity for love. But now at length, dear Diane, sank from sight, into a western couch of thundercloud. And now a ghost amid the entombing trees did glide away, only thine eyes remained. They would not go. They never yet have, lighting my lonely pathway home that night. They have not left me, as my hopes have, since. They follow me. They lead me through the years. They are my ministers, yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and incandle my duty. To be saved by their bright light, and purified in their electric fire, and sanctified in their elcian fire. They fill my soul with beauty, which is hope, and are far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to, in the sad silent watches of my night. While even in the meridian glare of day, I see them still, two sweetly scintillant venuses, unextinguished by the sun. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Annabelle Lee by Ed Grailand Poe. Recorded by PhilipVox.org. It was many and many a year ago, in the kingdom by the sea, that a maiden lived whom you may know by the name of Annabelle Lee, and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. I was the child and she was the child in this kingdom by the sea. But we loved with the love that was more than love, I and my Annabelle Lee, with the love that the wings serifs of heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind flew out of a cloud by night, chilling my Annabelle Lee, so that her high-born kinsmen came and bore her away from me, to shut her up in a sepulcher in this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me. Yes, that was the reason, as all men know in this kingdom by the sea, that the wind came out of the cloud, chilling and killing my Annabelle Lee. But our love, it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we, and neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, can ever disever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. And so, all the night tied, I lay down by the side of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, in her sepulcher there by the sea, in her tomb by the side of the sea. End of Annabelle Lee. This recording is in the public domain. A Valentine by Ed Grail and Poe. Recorded for LibraVox.org. For her, this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, brightly expressive as the twins of Luetta, shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies upon the page, and wrought from every reader. Search narrowly the limes, they hold the treasure, divine, a talisman, an amulet, that must be worn at heart. Search well the measure, the words, the syllables, do not forget the trivialist point, or you may lose your labor. And yet there is in this no-gordian knot, which one might not undo without a saber, if one could merely comprehend the plot, and written upon the leaf, where now appearing eyes scintillating soul, there lie perished three eloquent words, off uttered in the hearing of poets by poets, as the name is a poet's too. Its letters, although naturally lying, like the Night Pinto, Mendes Ferdinando, still form a synonym for truth, cease trying, you will not read the dreddle, though you do the best you can do. End of A Valentine by Ed Grail and Poe. This recording is in the public domain. An Enigma by Ed Grail and Poe. Recorded for LibroVox.org. seldom we find, says Solomon Dundun, half an idea in the profoundest sonnet, through all the flimsy things we see at once, as easily as through a Naples bonnet, trash of all trash, how can a lady don it, yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff, owl downy nonsense at the faintest puff, twirls in the trunk paper the while you con it. And veritably soul is right enough, the general tucker manatees are errant, bubbles ephemeral and so transparent. But this is now, and you may depend upon it, stable, opaque, immortal, all by dint, of the dear names that lie concealed within it. End of An Enigma by Ed Grail and Poe. This recording is in the public domain. To My Mother by Ed Grail and Poe. Recorded for LibroVox.org. Because I feel that in the heavens above, the angels whispering to one another, confined among their burning terms of love, none so devotional as that of mother, therefore by that dear name I long have called you, you who are more than mother unto me, and fill my heart of hearts where death installed you, in setting my Virginia spirit free. My mother, my own mother who died early, was but the mother of myself, but you are mother to the one I loved so dearly, and thus are dearer than the mother I knew by that infinity with which my wife was dearer to my soul than its soul life. End of Poe. This recording is in the public domain. For Annie by Ed Grail and Poe. Recorded for LibroVox.org. Thank heaven, the crisis, the danger is past, and the lingering illness is over at last, and the fever called living is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, and no muscle I move as I lie at full length, but no matter, I feel I am better at length, and I rest so compulsively now in my bed that any beholding might fancy me dead, might start at beholding me thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, the sighing and sobbing are quieted now with that horrible throbbing at heart. All that horrible, horrible throbbing, the sickness, the nausea, the pitiless pain, have ceased with the fever that raddened my brain, with the fever they called living, that burned in my brain. And oh, of all tortures, that torture the worst has abated, the terrible torture of thirst, for the not-lime river of passion accursed. I have drank of a water that quenches all thirst, of a water that flows with a lullaby sound, from a spring about a very few feet underground, from a cavern not very far down underground. And oh, let it never be foolishly said that my room is gloomy and narrow my bed, for man never slept in a different bed, and to sleep you must slumber in just such a bed. My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes, forgetting or never regretting its roses, its old agitations of myrtles and roses. For now, while so quietly lying, it fancies a holier odor about it, of pansies, a rosemary odor, commingled with pansies, with rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, bathing in many a dream of the truth, and the beauty of Annie, drowned in a bath of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, she fondly crested me, and then I fell gently to sleep on her breast, deeply to sleep from the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, she covered me warm, and she prayed to the angels to keep me from harm, to the queen of the angels to shield me from harm, and I lie so composedly now in my bed, knowing her love, that you fancy me dead, and I rest so contentedly now in my bed, with her love in my breast, that you fancy me dead, that you shudder to look at me, thinking me dead. But my heart, it is brighter than all of the many stars in the sky, for it sparkles with Annie, it glows with the light of the love of my Annie, with the thought of the light of the eyes of my Annie. End of For Annie by Ed Grown Poe. This recording is in the public domain. This is LibriBox recording. All LibriBox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or see how you can volunteer, please visit LibriBox.org. 2. F. By Ed Grown Poe. Beloved amid the earnest woes that crowd around my earthly path, drear path alas, where grows not even one lonely rose, my soul at least is saw as hath, in dreams of thee and therein knows, and Eden of Bland repose, and thus thy memory is to me, like some enchanted far afile in some tumultuous sea, some ocean throbbing far and free with storms, but where, meanwhile, Serena's skies continually just o'er that one bright island's mile. End of 2F by Ed Grown Poe. To Francis S. Osgood by Ed Grown Poe. Recorded for LibriBox.org. Thou wouldst be loved, then let thy heart from his present pathway part not, being everything which now thou art, be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, thy grace, thy more than beauty, shall be an endless theme of praise, and love a simple duty. End of Recording. This recording is in the public domain. El Dorado by Ed Grown Poe. Recorded for LibriBox.org by Shirtical. Gaely Bedite, a gallant knight in sunshine and in shadow, had journeyed long singing his song in search of El Dorado. But he grew old this night so bold, and over his heart a shadow fell, as he found no spot of ground that looked like El Dorado. And as his strength failed him at length, he met a pilgrim's shadow. Shadow, said he, where can it be, this land of El Dorado? Over the mountains of the moon down the valley of the shadow, ride boldly, ride, the shade replied, if you seek for El Dorado. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or to see how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Eulily by Ed Grown Poe. Recorded for LibriVox.org. I dwelt alone in the world of Moan, and my soul was a stagnant tide, till the fair and gentle Eulily became my blushing bride, till the yellow-haired young Eulily became my smiling bride. Ah, less, less bright, the stars of night, than the eyes of the radiant girl, and never a flake that the vapor can make, with the moon-tints of purple and pearl, can vie with the modest Eulily's most unregarded curl, can compare with the bright-eyed Eulily's most humble and careless curl. Now doubt, now pain, come never again, for her soul gives me sigh for sigh, and all day long shines bright and strong, astarte within the sky. While ever to her dear Eulily upturns her matron eye, while ever to her young Eulily upturns her violet eye. End of Eulily by Ed Grown Poe. This recording is in the public domain. To Mary Louise Shoe. By Ed Grown Poe. Recorded for LibriVox.org. Of all who hail thy presence as the morning, of all to whom thine absence is the night, the blotting Eulily from out high heaven, the sacred sun, of all who weeping bless the Eulily for hope, for life, above all for the resurrection of deep buried faith, in truth, in virtue, in humanity, of all who on despair is on hallowed bed, lying down to die, have suddenly arisen that thy soft mirrored words let there be light. Of the soft mirrored words that were fulfilled in the seraphic glancing of thine eyes. Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude nearest resembles worship. O, remember the truest, the most fervently devoted, and think that these weak lines are written by him, by him who, as he pens them, thrills to think his spirit is commuting with an angel's. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. The City in the Sea by Ed Grown Poe. Recorded by LibraVox.org by Shirtical. Lo, death has reared himself a throne, in a strange city lying alone, far down within the dim west, where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers, time-eaten towers that tremble not, resemble nothing that is ours, around by lifting winds forgot, resignedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down, on the long night time of that town. But light from out the lurid sea streams up the turrets silently, gleams up the pinnacles far and free, up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, up veins, up Babylon-like walls, up shadowy long-forgotten bowers, of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, up many and many a marvelous shrine, whose wreath freezes into twine, the veal, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie, so blend the turrets and shadows there that all seem pendulous in air. While from a proud tower in the town, death looks gigantically down. There open veins and gaping graves, young level with the luminous waves. But not the riches there that lie, in each idol's diamond eye, not the gaily jeweled dead attempt the waters from their bed, for no ripples curl alas, along that wilderness of glass. No swellings tell that winds may be upon some far off happier sea. No heavings hint that winds have been, on seas less hideously serene. But low, a stir is in the air, the wave, there is movement there. As if the towers had thrown aside, in slightly sinking the dull tide, as if their tops had feebly given, avoid within the filmy heaven. The waves have now a redder glow, the hours are breathing faint and low, and wind amid no earthly moans, down, down that town shall settle hence, hell rising for a thousand thrones, shall do it reverence. End of poem is recorded in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. This is Sleeper by Ed Gallin Poe. Recording for Librevox.org by Shirtical. At midnight in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon, an opiate vapor dewy, dim, exhales from out her golden rim, and softly dripping, drop by drop, upon the quiet mountaintop, steals drowsily musically into the univeral valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave, the lily lolls upon the wave, wrapping the fog about its breast, the ruined mold is into rest, looking like lethy, sea, the lake, a conscious slumber seems to take, and would not for the world awake. All beauty sleeps, and lo, where lies, her easement open to the skies, Irene with her destinies. Oh, Lady Bright, can it be right, this window open to the night, the wanton airs from the treetop, laughingly through the lattice drop. The bodyless airs, a wizard rout, flip through thy chamber in and out, and wave the curtain canopy, so fitfully, so fearfully, above the closed and fringed lid, neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid, that over the floor and down the wall, like ghosts and shadows rise and fall. Oh, Lady Dear, hast thou no fear? Why, and what art thou dreaming here? Sure, thou art come pure far off seas, a wonder to these garden trees. Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress, strange above all thy length of tress, and this all solemn silentness. The Lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, which is enduring, so be deep. Heaven havert it's sacred keep. This chamber changed for one more holy, this bed for one more melancholy. I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye, while the dim she to ghosts go by. My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, as it is lasting, so be deep. Soft may the worms about her creep. Far in the forest, dim and old, for her may some tall vault unfold, some vault that oft hath flung its black and winged panels fluttering back, triumphant over the crested pals, of her grand family funerals, some sepulcher, remote, alone, against whose portals she hath thrown, in childhood many an idle stone, some tomb from out whose sounding door, she never shall force an echo more. Threeling to think, poor child of sin, it was the dead who groaned within. End of recording. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librox.org. Recording for Librovox.org The ring is on my hand, and the wreath is on my brow. Satans and jewels grand are all on my command, and I am happy now. And my lord, he loves me well, but when first he breathed his vow, I felt my bosom swell, for the words rang as he knell. And the voice seemed his, who fell in the battle down the dell, and who is happy now. But he spoke to reassure me, and he kissed my pallid brow. While reverie came over me, and to the churchyard bore me, and I sighed to him before me, thinking him dead, deolour me. Oh, I am happy now. And thus the words were spoken, and this the pallid vow, and though my faith be broken, and though my heart be broken, behold the golden token that proves me happy now. Would God I could awaken, for a dream I know not how, and my soul is sorely shaken, lest an evil step be taken, lest the dead who is forsaken may not be happy now? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lenore, by Gallin Poe. Recorded for Luprovox.org by Scherzegal, on the 11th of May, 2007. Ah, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flowing forever. Let the bell toll, a saintly soul floats in the Stagian river, and guided very hast thou no tear, weep now or never more. See, young Andria and rigid Byer, low lies thy love, Lenore. Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung, an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young. A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young. Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth, and hated her for her pride. And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her that she died. How shall the ritual then be read, the requiem how be sung, by you, by yours, the evil eye, by yours, the slander's tongue, that did to death the innocent that died, and died so young. Pecavimus, but rave not thus, and let us have a song go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong. The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with hope, that flew beside, leaving thee wild for the dear child, that should have been thy bride. For her the fair and debonair that now so lowly lies, the life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes, the life still there upon her hair, the death upon her eyes. Avant, tonight my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise, but waft the angel on her flight with the pain of old days. Let no bell toll, lest her sweet soul amid his hallowed mirth, should catch the note as it doth float, up from the damned earth, to friends above from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven from hell upon a high estate far up within the heaven, from grief ingrown to a golden throne beside the king of heaven. End of poem, this recording's in the public domain. A green isle in the sea, love, a fountain in the shrine, all wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, and all the flowers were mine. Ah, a dream too bright to last, ah, starry hope that didst arise, but to be overcast. A voice from out the future cries, On, on, but over the past dim gold my spirit hovering lies, mute, mothenless aghast. For alas, alas, with me the light of life is over, no more, no more, no more such language holds the solemn sea to the sands upon the shore, shall bloom the thunder-oblasted tree, or the stricken eagle soar, and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams are where thy dark-eyed glances, and where thy footstep gleams, in what eternal dances by what eternal streams. End of poem, this recording's in the public domain. Type of the antique Rome, rich well-equery of lofty contemplation left to time, by buried centuries of pomp and power, at length, at length, after so many days of worry-pilgrimage and burning thirst, thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie, I kneel, an altered and a humble man, amid thy shadows, and so drink within my very soul, thy grandeur, gloom and glory, vastness and age and memories of old, silence and desolation and dim night, I feel ye now, I feel ye in your strength, I was spells more sure than ever Judean king, taught in the gardens of Gethsemin, oh, charms more potent than the raptor chaldee ever drew down from out the quiet stars, here where a hero fell, a column falls, here where the mimic eagle glared in gold, a midnight vigil holds this worthy bat, here where the dames of Rome, their gilded hair waved in the wind, now waved the reeds in thistle, here where on golden throne the monarch lulled, gilds specter-like unto his marble home, lit by the wand light, the swift and silent lizard of the stones, but stay, these walls, these ivy-clad arcades, these molding plinths, these sad and blackened shafts, these vague entablatures, this crumbling phrase, these shattered cornses, this wreck, this rune, these stones, alas, these grey stones, are they all, all the famed and the colossal left by the corrosive hours of fate and me? Not all, the echoes answer me, not all. prophetic sounds and loud arise forever from us, and from all rune unto the wise, as melody of memnon to the sun, we rule the hearts of mightiest men, we rule with a despotic sway, all giant minds, we are not impotent, we pallid stones, not all our power is gone, not all our fame, not all the magic of our high renown, not all the wonder then circles us, not all the mysteries that in us lie, not all the memories that hang upon and cling around about us as a garment, clothing us in a robe of more than glory, end of poem, this recording is in the public domain. For more information or to see how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. In the greenest of our valleys, by good angels tenanted, once a fair and stately palace, radiant palace, reared its head in the monarch thoughts dominion, it stood there, never served spread opinion over fabric half so fair, banners yellow, glorious, golden, on its roof did float and flow, this, all this, was in the olden time, long ago, and every gentle air that dallied in that sweet day along the ramparts, plumed and pallied, a winged odor went away, wanderers in that happy valley, through two luminous windows saw, spirits moving musically to a lute's well-tuned law, round about a throne were sitting, poor Therogen, in state his glory well befitting, the ruler of the realm was seen, and all with pearl and ruby glowing was a fair palace door, through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, and sparkling ever more, a troop of echoes, whose sweet duty was but to sing, in voices of surpassing beauty, the wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, assailed the monarch's highest state, ah, let us mourn, for never sorrow shall dawn upon him desolate, and round about his home the glory that blushed and bloomed is but a dim remembered story of their old time entombed. And travel is now, within that valley, through the red-liton windows see vast forms that move fantastically, to a discordant melody, while lying a ghastly rapid river, through the pale door, a hideous throng rush out forever, and laugh, but smile no more. End of poem. This recording is in the Pollock domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Conqueror Worm by Ed Galin Poe, recorded by LibriVox.org. Low to the Galin night, within the lonesome latter years, an angel throng, bewing to bedight, unveils and drowned in tears, sit in a theater to see a play of hopes and fears, while the orchestra breathes fitfully the music of the spheres. Mimes in the form of God on high, mutter and mumble low, and hither and dither fly, mere puppets they who come and go at bidding of vast formless things, that shift the scenery to and fro, flapping from out their conder wings, invisible woe. That motley drama, oh, be sure it shall not be forgot, with its phantom chased forever more by a crown that sees it not, through a circle that ever returneth into the self-same spot, and much of madness and more of sin, and horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic-root, a crawling shape intrude, a blood-red thing that writhes from out the scenic solitude. It writhes, it writhes, with mortal pangs, the mimes become its food, and the angels sob at vermin fangs and human gore imbued. Out, out of the lights, out all, and over each quivering form, the curtain of funeral pawl comes down with the rush of a storm, and the angels all pallid it and wane, uprising, unveiling, affirmed that the play is the tragedy of man, and in Tyro, the conqueror worm. Silence by Ed Grail and Poe, recorded by PhilipVox.org. There are some qualities, some incorporate things, that have a double life, which thus is made a type of that twin entity which springs from matter and light and vinced in solid and shade. There is a twofold silence, sea and shore, body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, newly with grass overgrown, some solemn graces, some human memories in tearful lore, render him terrorless, his names no more. He is the corporate silence, dread him not. No power hath he of evil in himself. But should some urgent fate, untimely lot, bring thee to meet his shadow, nameless elf that haunted the lone regions, where hath trod no foot of man, commend thyself to God. End of Silence by Ed Grail and Poe, this recording is in the public domain. Dreamland by Ed Grail and Poe, recorded by PhilipVox.org. By a route obscure and lonely, haunted by Elangels only, where an Edelon named Knight on a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands, but newly, from an ultimate dim tully. From a wild, weird climb that lieth sublime, out of space, out of time. Bottomless veils and boundless floods and chasms and caves and titan woods, with forms that no man can discover from the doos that drip all over, mountains toppling evermore into seas without a shore, seas that restlessly aspire, surging unto skies of fire, lakes that endlessly outspread, their lone waters, lone and dead, their still waters, still and chilly, with the snows of the lawling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread, their lone waters, lone and dead, their sad waters, sad and chilly, with the snows of the lawling lily, by the mountains near the river, murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, by the gray woods, by the swamp, where the toad and the newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools, where dwelled the ghouls, by each spot the most unholy, in each nook most melancholy, where the traveller meets the gassed, sheared memories of the past, shrouded forms that start in sigh as they pass the wanderer by, white-robed forms of friends long given in agony to the earth, and heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion, tis a peaceful soothing region, for the spirit that walks in shadow, tis, oh, tis an eldorado, but the traveller travelling through it may not dare openly view it, never its mysteries are exposed to the weak human eye enclosed, so wills its king who hath forbid the uplifting of the fringed lid, and thus the sad soul that here passes beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, haunted by illangels only, where an edelon named night on a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly from this ultimate dim tully. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or share you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Tuzante by Ed Granpo Fair Isle that from the fairest of all flowers, thy gentlest of all gentle names doth take, how many memories of what radiant hours that sight of thee and thine at once wake, how many scenes of what departed bliss, how many thoughts of what entombed hopes, how many visions of a maiden that is no more, no more upon thy verdant slopes, no more alas that magical sad sound. Transforming all, thy charms shall please no more, thy memory no more, a cursed ground. Henceforth I hold thy flower enameled shore, O hyacinthine isle, O purple zante, I sow a fjord de la vante. End of Tuzante by Ed Granpo Sonic to Science by Ed Granpo Recording for LibriVox.org Science, true daughter of old time, thou art, who alters dull things with thy peering eyes. Why prayers thou thus upon the poet's heart, vulture whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise? Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering to seek for treasure in jeweled skies? Albeit he soared with an undaunting wing, hast then not dragged Diana from her car, and driven the hammer dried from the wood to seek a shelter in some happier star, hast thou not torn the niad from her flood, the elfin from the green grass, and from me the summer dream beneath the tamarin tree? End of Sonic to Science This recording is in the public domain The Forest Reverie by Ed Granpo Recording for LibriVox.org by Schertagall Tiz said that when the hands of men tame this primeval wood and ory trees with groans of woe, like soldiers by an unknown foe were in their strengths subdued, the virgin earth gave instant birth to springs that never did flow, the inn the sun did rivulets run, and all around rare flowers did blow, the wild rose pale perfumed the gale, and the queenly lily adorned the dale, whom the sun and the dew and the winds did woo, with the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew. So when in tears the love of years has wasted like the snow, and the fine fibrils of its life by the rude rung of instant strife are broken of the blow, within the heart do springs upstart, of which it doth now know, in strange sweet dreams like silent streams that from new fountains over flow, with the earlier tide of rivers glide, deep in the heart whose hope has died, quenching the fires its ashes hide, its ashes whence will spring and grow. Sweet flowers air long the rare and radiant flowers of song. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Each visitor shall confess the sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless. Nothing save the airs that brood over the magic solitude. By no wind are stirred those trees that palpitate like the chill seas around the misty hebrides. By no wind those clouds are driven that wrestle through the unquiet heaven, uneasily from more until even. Over the violets there that lie, in myriad types of the human eye, over the lilings there that wave and weep above a nameless grave, they wave, from out their fragrant tops, the eternal dews come down and drops. They weep, from out their delicate stems, perennial tears descend in gems. End of The Valley of Unrest by Edgar Allen Poe. This recording is in the public domain. To find out more or see how you can volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Israfel by Edgar Allen Poe. Recording for Librevox.org. In heaven a spirit doth dwell, whose heartstrings are eluked. None sings so wildly well as the angel Israfel, and the giddy stars so legends tell, ceasing their hymns attend the spell of his voice all mute. Tottering above in her highest noon, the enamored moon blushes with love. While to listen, the red leaven, with the rapid pleads, even which were seven, pauses in heaven, and they say, the star-acquire, and all the listening things, that Israfel's fire is owing to that lyre by which he sits and sings, the trembling living wire of those unusual strings. But the sky's the angel-trod, where deep thoughts are a duty, where loves a grown-up god, where the hoary glances are imbued with all the beauty which we worship in his star. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfel, who despises an unimpassioned song. To thee the laurels belong, best-barred, because the wisest merrily live in long. The ecstasies above with thy burning measures suit, thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, with the fervor of thy loot, well may the stars be mute. Yes, heaven is thine, but this is the world of sweets and sours. Our flowers are merely flowers, and the shadow of thy perfect bliss is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt, and he were I, ye might not sing so wildly well, a mortal melody, where a bolder note than this might swell from my lyre within the sky. In dreams I see, the wanton of singing birds, our lips and all thy melody, of lip-begotten words, thine eyes in heaven of heart enshrined, then desolately fall, O God, on my funeral mind, like starlight on a pall, thy heart, thy heart I wake and sigh, and sleep to dream till day, of truth that gold can never buy, of the trifles that it may, and of, to blank, this recording is in the public domain. To blank, by id-grown-poe, recorded for lip-vox.org, I heed not that my earthly lot hath little of earth in it, the years of love have been forgotten, the hatred of a minute, I mourn not that the desolate are happier, sweet than I, but the usorrow from my fate whom I pass her by. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To the river, by id-grown-poe, recorded for lip-vox.org, Fair river, in thy bright clear flow of crystal-wandering water, thou art an emblem of the glow of beauty, the unhidden heart, the playful maziness of art, in old Alberto's daughter, but when within thy wave she looks, which glistens then trembles, why then the prettiest of brooks her worship her resembles, for in my heart, as in thy stream, her image deeply lies, his heart which trembles at the beam of her soul searching eyes. End of, to the river, by id-grown-poe, this recording is in the public domain. Song, by id-grown-poe, recorded for lip-vox.org, I saw thee on thy bridal day when a burning blush came over thee, though happiness around thee lay, the world all loved before thee, and in thy night a kindling light, whatever it might be, was all on earth my aching sight of loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was made in shame, as such it well may pass, though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame in the breast of him alas, who saw thee on that bridal day, when that deep blush would come over thee, though happiness around thee lay, the world all loved before thee. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Thy soul shall find itself alone, mid-dark thoughts of the grey tombstone, not one of all the crowd, to pry into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, which is not loneliness, for then the spirits of the dead who stood in life before thee are again, in death around thee, and their will shall then overshadow thee. Be still! For the night though clear shall frown, and the stars shall look not down, from their high thrones in the heaven, with light like hope to mortals given. But the red orbs without beam to thy weariness shall seem, as a burning in the fever, which would cling to thee forever. Now our thoughts thou shalt not vanish, now our visions never to vanish, from thy spirit shall they pass, no more, like dew drop from the grass. The breeze, the breath of God, is still, and the mist upon the hill, shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, is a symbol and a token, how it hangs upon the trees, a mystery of mysteries. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. For more information or volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Dream, by Edgar Allan Poe, read for LibriVox.org In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed, but awaking dreams of life and light have left me broken-hearted. Ah, what is not accompanied by day to him whose eyes are cast on things around him with array turned back upon the past. That holy dream, that holy dream, while all the world which hiding, hath cheered me as the lovely beam, a lonely spirit guiding, what through that light through storm and night, so trembled from afar, what could their beam or purely bright in truth-day star. End of A Dream, by Edgar Allan Poe, this recording is in the public domain. Romance, by Edgar Allan Poe, recorded for LibriVox.org Romance, who loves to nod and sing with drowsy head and folded wing, among the green leaves as they shake far down within some shadowy lake, to me a painted parakeet hath been, a most familiar bird, talking my alphabet to say, to list my very earliest word, while in the wild would I did lie a child with a most knowing eye. Of late eternal condor years, so shake the very heaven on high, with two malt as the thunder by, I have no time for idle cares, through gazing on the unquiet sky, and when an hour with calmer wings, it's down upon thy spirit flings, that little time with lyre and rhyme, to wile away forbidden things, my heart would feel to be a crime, unless it trembled with the strings. End of Poe, this recording is in the public domain. Romance, by Edgar Allan Poe, recorded for LibriVox.org by Shirtical on the 11th of May 2007. Dim veils and shadowy floods, and a cloudy-looking woods, whose forms we can't discover for the tears that drip all over, huge moons there wax and wane, again, again, again, every moment of the night, forever changing places, and they put out the starlight with the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon dial, one more filming than the rest, a kind which upon trial they have found to be the best, comes down, still down, and down, with its center on the crown of a mountain's eminence, while its wide circumference in easy drapery falls, over hamlets, over halls, wherever they may be, over the strange woods, over the sea, over spirits on the wing, over every drowsy thing, and buries them up quite in the labyrinth of light, and then, how deep, oh deep, is the passion of their sleep, in the morning they arise, and their moony covering is soaring in the skies, with the tempest as they toss, like almost anything, or a yellow albatross. They use that moon no more for the same end as before, vedellus into tent, which I think extravagant, its autonomy is, however, into a shower deceiver, of which those butterflies of earth who seek the skies, and so come down again, never contented things, have wrought a specimen upon their quivering wings. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Lake, with black rock bound, and tall pines that towered around. But when the night had thrown her pall upon that spot as upon all, and the mystic wind went by murmuring in melody, then, not then, I would awake to the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, but a tremulous delight, a feeling not the jeweled mine could teach or bribe me to define, nor love, although the love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, and in its gulf a fitting grave. For him who then could saw a spring to his lone imagining, whose solitary soul could make an Eden of that dim lake. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Of the brighter cold moon, mid-planets her slaves, herself in the heavens, her beam on the waves, I gazed awhile on her cold smile, too cold, too cold for me, there past the shroud of fleecy cloud, and I turned away to thee, proud evening star in thy glory afar, and dear thy beam shall be, for joy to my heart is the proud part, thou barest in heaven at night, and more I admire thy distant fire than that colder, lowly light. End of, an evening star, by Edgar Allen Poe. This recording is in the public domain. This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or see how you can volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. The Happiest Day by Edgar Allen Poe. The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour, my seared and blighted heart has known the highest hope of pride and power I feel have flown. Of powers did I? Yes, such I wean, but they have vanished long alas, the visions of my youth have been, but let them pass. And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may even inherit, the venom thou hast poured on me. Be still, my spirit. The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour, my eyes shall see, have ever seen. The brightest glance of pride and power I feet have been, but were that hope of pride and power now offered with the pain, even then I felt that brightest hour I would not live again. For on its wing was dark alloy, and as it fluttered fell, in essence powerful to destroy, a soul that knew it well. End of, The Happiest Day, by Edgar Allen Poe. Imitation by Edgar Allen Poe. Recorded by Philip Vox.org A dark, unthavened tide of interminable pride, a mystery and a dream should my early life seem. I say that dream was fraught with a wild and waking thought of beings that have been, which my spirit hath not seen, how I let them pass me by with a dreaming eye, let none of earth inherit that vision of my spirit, whose thoughts I would control as a spell upon his soul, for that bright hope it last, and that light time have passed, and my worldly rest hath gone with a sigh as it passed on, I care not though it perished with a thought I then did cherish. End of, Imitation, by Edgar Allen Poe. This recording is in the public domain. Hymn to A Wrist Agent in Humordius. Recorded by Philip Vox.org Wreathed in Myrtle, my sordile conceal, like those champions devoted and brave, when they plunged from the tyrant their steel, and Athens' deliverance gave. Beloved heroes, your deathless souls roam in the joy-breathing aisles of the blessed, where the mighty of old have their home, where Achilles and Diamond rest. In fresh Myrtle my blade all entwine, like Humordius the gallant and good, when he made the toodler's shrine a libation of tyranny's blood, ye deliverers of Athens from shame, ye avengers of liberty's wrongs, endless ages shall cherish your fame, embalmed in their echoing songs. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. For more information or to feel you can volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Dreams, by Edgar Allen Poe. Recorded by LibreVox.org by Shirtical. Oh, that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakened, till the beam of an eternity should bring the morrow. Yes, though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, to a better than the dull reality, of waking life to him whose heart shall be, and hath been ever on the chilly earth, a chaos of deep passion from his birth. But should it be that dream eternally continuing, as dreams have been to me, in my young boyhood, should it thus be given, to a folly still to hope for higher heaven. For I have reveled when the sun was bright in the summer sky, in dreamy fields of light, and left unheedingly my very heart, in climes of mine imagining, apart from my own home, with beings that have been of my own thought. What more could I have seen? Twas once and only once, and the wild hour from my remembrance shall not pass. Some power a spell has bound me. Twas the chilly wind came over me in the night, and left behind its image on my spirit, or the moon shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon. Too coldly on the stars, however it was, that dream was as that night wind, let it pass. I have been happy, though but in it dream. I have been happy, and I love the theme. Dreams in their vivid colouring of life, as in that fleeting shadowy misty strife, of semblance with reality, which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love, and all our own, the young hope in its sunniest hour hath known. End of recording. This poem is in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. In Youth I Have Known One, by Edgar Allen Poe. Recorded by LibreVox.org by Shirtical. How often we forget all time, when lowed in my own nature's universal throne, her woods, her wilds, her mountains, the intense reply of hers to our intelligence. In Youth I Have Known One, with whom the earth and secret communing held, as he with it, in daylight and in beauty, from his birth, whose fervent flickering torch of life was lit from the sun and stars, once he had drawn forth a passionate light, such as his spirit was fit, and yet that spirit knew not, in the hour of its own fervor, what had over it power. Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought to a fever by the moon beam that hangs over, but I will half believe that wild light fraught, with more of sovereignty than ancient lore hath ever told, or is it of a thought, the unembodied essence, and no more, that with a quickening spell doth over us pass, as do of the night time over the summer grass, doth over us pass, when as the expanding eye to the loved object, so the tear to the lid will start, which lately slept in apathy, and yet it need not be that object hid from us in life, but common which doth lie each hour before us, but then only bid with a strange sound, as of a harp string broken, to wake us, to the symbol and the token, of what in other words shall be, and given in beauty by our God to those alone, who otherwise would fall from life in heaven, drawn by their hearts' passion in that tone, that high tone in the spirit which hath driven, though not with faith in godliness, who's thrown with desperate energy to hath beaten down, wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. A new poem is recorded in the public domain. For more information or to see how you can volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. A Pan by Ed Galen Pope. Recorded for LibreVox.org by Schertigal. How shall a burial rite be read? The psalm's song be sung, the requiem for the loveliest dead, that ever died so young. Her friends are gazing on her, and on her gaudy buyer, and weep, oh, to dishonor dead beauty with a tear. They loved her for her wealth, and they hated her for her pride, but she grew in feeble health, and they love her, that she died. They tell me, while they speak of her, costly broodered pal, that my voice is growing weak, that I should not sing at all, or that my tone should be tuned to such psalm's song, so mournfully, so mournfully that the dead may feel no wrong. But she is gone above with young hope at her side, and I am drunk with love of the dead who is my bride. Of the dead, dead who lies, all perfumed there, with the death upon her eyes, and the life upon her hair. Thus, on the coffin loud and long, I strike, the murmur sent, through the gray chambers to my song, shall be the accompaniment. Thou diedest in thy life's tune, but thou didest not die too fair. Thou didest not die too soon, nor with too calm an air. For more than fiends on earth, thy life and love were driven, to join the untainted mirth, of more than thrones in heaven. Therefore, to thee this night, I will know requiem ways, but waft thee on thy flight, with a pain of old days. This recording is in the public domain. For more information or to see how you can volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. This is the Librevox recording, all Librevox recordings in the public domain. To find out more or see how you can volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Alone, by Edgar Allen Poe. From childhood's hour, I have not been as others were. I have not seen as others saw. I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken my sorrow. I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone. And all I loved, I loved alone. Then, in my childhood, in the dawn, of the most stormy life, I was drawn from every depth of good and ill. The mystery which binds me still. From the torrent or the fountain, from the red cliff of the mountain, from the sun that round me rolled, in its autumn tint of gold, from the lightning in the sky as it passed me flying by, from the thunder and the storm, in the cloud that took the form. When the rest of heaven was blue, of a demon in my view, end of Alone, by Edgar Allen Poe. The village street by Edgar Allen Poe. Recording for Librevox.org by Shirtical. In these rapid restless shadows, once I walked even tide, when a gentle silent maiden walked in beauty at my side, she alone there walked beside me, all on duty, like a bride. Apparently the moon was shining, on the dewy mountains, nigh, on the silvery silent rivers, on the mountains far and high, in the ocean starlit waters, where the winds of weary die. Slowly silently we wandered, from the open cottage door, underneath the Elm's long branches, to the pavement bending over, underneath the mossy willow, and the dying sycamore. With the myriad stars and beauty, all bedight in the heavens were seen, radiant hopes were bright around me, like the light of stars serene, like the mellow midnight splendor, of the night's radiant queen. Audibly the Elm leaves whispered, peaceful, pleasant melodies, like the distant murmur and music, of unquiet, lovely seas, while the winds were hushed and slumber, and the fragrant flowers and trees, wondrous and unwonted beauty, still adorning all did seem, while I told my love in fables, beneath the willows by the stream, with the heart of captain spoken, a love that was its rarest dream. Instantly away we wandered, in the shadowy twilight tide, she, the silent scornful maiden, walking calmly at my side, with the steps serene and stately, all in beauty, all in pride. Vacantly I walked beside her, on the earth my eyes were cast, swift and keen that came unto me, written memories of the past, on me like the rain in autumn, on the dead leaves cold and fast, underneath the elms we parted, by the lowly cottage door, one brief word alone was uttered, never on our lips before, and away I walked furlornly, broken hearted evermore. Slowly, silently I loitered, homeworked in the night alone, sudden anguish bound my spirit, that my youth have never known, wild rest like that which cometh, when the night's first dream has flown. Now to me the elm leaves whispered, mad discordant melodies, and keen melodies like shadows, haunt the moaning willow trees, and the sycamores with laughter mocked me in the nightly breeze. Saddened pale the autumn moonlight,