 Ant Helen, by T. S. Eliot, read for LibriVox.org. Ms. Helen Sligsby was my maiden aunt, and lived in a small house near a fashionable square, cared for by servants to the number of four. Now when she died there was silence in heaven and silence at her end of the street. The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet. He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before. The dogs were handsomely provided for, but shortly afterwards the parrot died too. The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece, and the footman sat upon the dining-table holding the second housemaid on his knees, who had always been so careful while her mistress lived. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. The Ballot Box by N. W. Beck. Read for LibriVox.org by Sherty Gull. Freedoms consecrated dower, casket of a priceless gem, noble heritage of power, thine imperial diadem, cornerstone on which was reared Liberty's triumphal dome, when her glorious form appeared amidst her own green mountain home, purchased by his noble blood as mortal veins ever run, by the toll of those who stood at the sides of Washington, by the hearts that met the foe on their native battle-plane, with the arm that dealt the blow never needs to strike again, with the craven that would dare march with polluted breath, scorned and cursed be his to share. The traitors' shame, the traitors' death. Let his faithless heart be torn from his requient bossam-riven, and upon the whirlwind born to the carrion be given. Guard it, freemen, guard it well, spotless as your maiden's fame. Never let your children tell of your weakness, of your shame, that their father basely sold what was bought with blood and toll, that you bartered right for gold here on Freedoms' sacred soil. Let your eagle's quenchless eye, fixed on airing, sleepless, bright, watch when danger hovers nigh, from his lofty mountain high, while the stripes and stars shall wave over this treasure, peer and free, the land of Palladium it shall save the home and shrine of liberty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For more information on a volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Broken Dreams by William Butler Yates Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlyn Cooper Broken Dreams There is gray in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath when you are passing. But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing because it was your prayer, recovered him upon the bed of death. For your soul's sake, that all hearts ache have known and given to others all hearts ache, from meager girlhoods putting on burdensome beauty, for your soul's sake heaven has put away the stroke of her doom. So grate her portion in that peace you make by merely walking in a room. Your beauty can but leave among us vague memories, nothing but memories. A young man when the old men are done talking will say to an old man, tell me of that lady the poet's stubborn with his passion sang us when age might well have chilled his blood. Vague memories, nothing but memories. But in the grave all, all shall be renewed. The certainty that I shall see that lady leaning or standing or walking in the first loveliness of womanhood and with the fervor of my youthful eyes has set me muttering like a fool. You are more beautiful than any one, and yet your body had a flaw, your small hands were not beautiful. And I am afraid that you will run and paddle to the rest in that mysterious, always brimming lake where those would have obeyed the holy law, paddle in our perfect. Leave unchanged the hands that I have kissed for old sake's sake, the last stroke of midnight dies, all day in the one chair, from dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged, and rambling talk with an image of air, vague memories, nothing but memories. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Miss Nancy Ellicott strode across the hills and broke them, rode across the hills and broke them, the barren New England hills, riding two hounds over the cow pasture. Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked and danced all the modern dances, and her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, but they knew that it was modern. Upon the glazing shelves kept watch, Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, the army of unalterable law. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. 10,000 saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves and glee. A poet could not but be gay in such a joking company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. I gazed and gazed, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. For oft went on my couch I lie in vacant or impensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart was pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thank you. 10,000 saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The waves beside them danced, but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. For oft went on my couch, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The land's sharp features seemed to me the centuries' corpse outlent, its crypt the cloudy canopy, the wind its death lament. The ancient pulse of German birth was shrunken hard and dry, and every spirit upon earth seemed fervorless as I. At once a voice arose among the bleak twigs overhead in a full-hearted even song of joy limited. An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, with blasts beruffled plume, had chosen thus to fling his soul upon the growing gloom. So little cause for towerlings of such ecstatic sound was written on terrestrial things afar or nigh around that I could think there trembled through his happy good-night air. Some blessed hope, whereof he knew, and I was unaware. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Will the quilt be ever made? See the stitches yawning wide? Can it be that Polly tried? Some were right and some were wrong, some too short, some too long, some too loose and some too tight, grimy smudges on the white, and a tiny spot of red where poor Polly's finger bled. Strange such pretty dainy blocks, bits of Polly's summer frocks, should have proved so hard to sew, and the cause of so much woe. One day it was very hot, and the thread got in a knot, drew the seam up in a heap, Polly calmly fell asleep. Then she had a lovely dream, straight and even was the seam, pure and spotless was the white. All the blocks were finished quite, each joined to another one. Lo behold the quilt was done, lined and quilted, and it seemed to cover Polly as she dreamed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. by Andrew Macbeth When awful darkness and silence rain over the great grumbulian plain through the long, long, wintry nights, when the angry breakers roar as they beat on the rocky shore, when storm clouds brood on the towering heights of the hills of the Chankley Boar, then through the vast and gloomy dark there moves what seems a fiery spark, a lonely spark with silvery rays piercing the cold black night, a meteor strange and bright hither and thither the vision strays, a single lurid light. Slowly it wanders, pauses, creeps, and on its sparkles flashes and leaps, and ever as onward it gleaming goes a light on the bong tree stems it throws, and those who watch at that midnight hour from hall or terrace or lofty tower, cry as the wild light passes along, the dong, the dong, the wandering dong through the forest goes, the dong, the dong, the dong with a luminous nose. Long years ago the dong was happy and gay, till he fell in love with a jumbly girl who came to those shores one day, for the jumblies came in a sieve they did, landing at eve near the Xemery fid, where the oblong oysters grow, and the rocks are smooth and grey, and all the woods and the valleys rang with the chorus they daily and nightly sang, far and few, far and few are the lands where the jumblies live, their heads are green and their hands are blue, and they went to sea in a sieve. Happily, happily passed those days, while the cheerful jumblies stayed, they danced in circlits all night long to the plaintiff pipe of the lively dong in moonlight shine or shade, for day and night he was always there by the side of the jumbly girl so fair, with her sky-blue hands and her sea-green hair. Till the morning came of that hateful day, when the jumblies sailed in their sieve away, and the dong was left on the cruel shore, gazing, gazing forevermore, ever keeping his weary eyes on, that pea-green sail on the far horizon, singing the jumbly chorus still as he sat all day on the grassy hill, far and few, far and few are the lands where the jumblies live, their heads are green and their hands are blue and they went to sea in a sieve. But when the sun was low in the west, the dong arose and said, What little sense I once possessed has quite gone out of my head! And since that day he wanders still, by lake and forest, marsh and hill, singing, O somewhere in valley or plain, might I find my jumbly girl again, for ever I'll seek by lake and shore, till I find my jumbly girl once more. Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, since then his jumbly girl he seeks, and because by night he could not see, he gathered the bark of the twangum tree on the flowery plain that grows, and he wove him a wondrous nose, a nose as strange as a nose could be, of vast proportions and painted red and tied with cords to the back of his head, in a hollow rounded space it ended, with a luminous lamp within suspended, all fenced about with a bandaged stout to prevent the wind from blowing it out, and with holes all round to send the light in gleaming rays on the dismal night. And now each night, and all night long, over those plains still roams the dong, and above the wail of the chimp and snipe, you may hear the squeak of his plaintiff pipe, while ever he seeks, he seeks in vain to meet with his jumbly girl again, lonely and wild, all night he goes, the dong with a luminous nose, and all who watch at the midnight hour from hall or terrace or lofty tower, cry as they trace the meteor bright, moving along through the dreary night. This is the hour when forth he goes, the dong with a luminous nose, yonder over the plain he goes, he goes, he goes, the dong with a luminous nose. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. First Fig by Edna St. Menton-Mallet Read for LibriVox.org by David Starner on April 22, 2008. My candle burns at both ends, it will not last the night. But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends, it gives a lovely light. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. How the Cat Was Belled by Carolyn Wells Recorded for LibriVox.org by Carolyn Francis A fable, told by Law Fontaine two centuries or more ago, describes some rats who would a-ring a cat, their direst foe, who killed so many rats and caused the deepest woe, this cat-a-line of cats. The poor rats were at their wit's end their homes and families to defend, and as a last resort they took the case to court. It seems they called a caucus wise of rats of every age and size, and then their dean, with sapient mean, a very salon of a rat, said it was best to bell the cat. The quaint old tale goes on to tell how this plan would have worked quite well, but somehow flaws appeared because no one would hang the bell. Though there the ancient fable ends, later report the tale extends. No longer is the truth withheld, developments appear, and so you have it here, for the first time set down in rhyme just how that cat was belled. The council, as'd was getting late, was just about to separate when suddenly a rat arose who said he could a plan propose which would, he thought, succeed, and meet their urgent need. Now as this rat was very small and had no dignity at all, although his plan was well advised, we really need not be surprised, that all the rats of riper years expressed the gravest doubts and fears. Till suddenly he said, said he, If you will leave it all to me, I will avow three days from now that you shall all be free. The solemn council then adjourned, each rat to home and fireside turned, but each shook his wise head and to his neighbor said, It is a dangerous job in truth, though it seems not to head strong youth. Now young Sir Rat, we next behold, with manner brave and visage bold, go marching down to London-town, where wondrous things are sold. We see him stop at a large shop, and with a bland clerk's courteous aid, this was the purchase that he made. A bicycle, a finest make, with modern gear and patent brake, a thermometer, panamic tire, and spokes that look like silver wire, a lantern bright to shine at night, a namel finish, nickel plate, and all improvements up to date. Said slyly Sir Rat, it suits me well, especially that sweet-toned bell. The shades of night were falling fast when Sir Rat turned toward home at last. The neighbors watched him as he passed and said, What is that queer-shaped thing? Surely that can't be made to ring. Sir Rat went on, nor stayed to hear the jests they made, and just outside the old cat's gate he stopped and boldly braved his fate. For if that cat should smell a rat, how quickly he'd come out and catch him, and with what gusto he'd dispatch him. Sir Rat, against the picket fence, leaned the machine, then hurried hence, and hid himself with glee, and waited breathlessly to see what that cantankerous cat would say, when in the twilight dim he saw that brightly shining rim. Sir Rat, though hidden quite and safely out of sight, had scarcely time to wink his eye when Mr. Cat came sauntering by. Ha-ha, said he, what's this I see? A bicycle, and just my size. Well, this indeed is a surprise. I'll confiscate this treasure great. How quickly I'll fly o'er the ground when pursuing my hunting ground. He mounted it with eager haste. It suited well his sporting taste. He guided it at will, and used the break with skill. He grasped the handlebars, and then, you see, it was his custom when he did a thing to do it well. Of course he used the clear-toned bell. Victory now, the deed is done. No longer at the set of sun the rats fly shrieking to their nests, they saunter round with merry jests and narrow thought of fear. Knowing full well they'll hear the bell when Mr. Cat draws near. And young Sir Rat, who did the deed, whose cleverness relieved their need, his wondrous enterprise was lauded to the skies, and everywhere his name was hailed with shouts of fame. And difficulties, oft we see, modern improvements frequently will prove a happy remedy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Praise of Solid People by C. S. Lewis as Clive Hamilton. Read for LibriVox.org by Jordan. Thank God that there are solid folk who water flowers and roll the lawn, and sit and sow and talk and smoke and snore all through the summer dawn, who pass untroubled nights and days, full-fed and sleepily content, rejoicing in each other's praise, respectable and innocent, who feel the things that all men feel and think in well-worn grooves of thought, whose honest spirits never reel before man's mystery overraud. Yet not unfaithful nor unkind, with workday virtues surely stayed, theirs is the sane and humble mind, and dull affections undismayed. O happy people, I have seen no verse yet written in your praise, and truth to tell the time has been, I would have scorned your easy ways. But now, through weariness and strife, I learn your worthiness indeed. The world is better for such life, as stout suburban people lead. Too often have I sat alone, when the wet night falls heavily, and fretting winds around me moan, and homeless longing vexes me, for law that I shall never know, and visions none can hope to see, till brooding works upon me so, a childish fear steals over me. I look around the empty room, the clock still ticking in its place, and all else silent as the tomb, till suddenly, I think, a face, grows from the darkness just beside, I turn, and lo, it fades away, and soon another phantom tide of shifting dreams begins to play. And dusky galleys pass me sail, full freighted on a fairy sea, I hear the silken merchant's hail across the ringing waves to me. Then suddenly, again the room, familiar books about me piled, and I alone, amid the gloom, by one more mocking dream beguiled. And still no nearer to the light, and still no further from myself, alone and lost in clinging night, the clock still ticking on the shelf. Then do I envy sullied folk, who sit of evenings by the fire, after their work and doze and smoke, and are not fretted by desire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mariposa by Edna St Vincent Malay. Read for LibriVox.org by Liz Fenstermaker. Butterflies are white and blue in this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew will be ashes in that hour. Mark the transient butterfly, how he hangs upon the flower. Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, death comes in a day or two. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mesopotamia by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox by Greg Bathon. They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young, the eager and wholehearted whom we gave. But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung shall they come with years and honor to the grave. They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain, in sight of help, denied from day to day. But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain, are they too strong and wise to put away? Our dead shall not return to us while day and night divide, never, while the bars of sunset hold. But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died shall they thrust for high employment, as of old? Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour? When the storm is ended shall we find how softly, but how swiftly they have sidled back to power, by the favor and contrivance of their kind. Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends, even while they make a show of fear, do they call upon their debtors and take counsel with their friends to conform and re-establish each career? Their lives cannot repay us. Their death could not undo the shame that they have laid upon our race. But the slothfulness that wasted, and the arrogance that slew, shall we leave it unabated in its place? And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. While I tell thee, fluttering thing, that thou of love an emblem art. Yes, patient plume thy little wing, whilst I tie my thoughts to thee in part. When summer nights they'd use bestow, and summer suns enrich the day, thy notes the blossoms charm to blow, each hopes delighted at thy lay. So when in youth, the eyes dark glance, speaks pleasure from its circle-blight, the tones of love our joys enhance, and make superior each delight. And when bleak storms, resistless a rove, and every rural bliss destroy, naught comforts then the leafless grove, but thy soft notes its only joy. In so the words of love beguile, when pleasures a tree no longer bears, and a draw a soft, endearing smile amid the gloom of grief and tears. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens Among twenty snowy mountains, the only moving thing was the eye of the blackbird. I was of three minds, like a tree, in which there are three blackbirds. The blackbird, world in the autumn wind, it was a small part of the pantomime. A man and a woman are one, a man and a woman and a blackbird are one. I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of inflections, or the beauty of innuendos, the blackbird whistling, or just after. Icicles filled the window with barbaric glass, the shadow of the blackbird, crossed it to infrow. The mood traced in the shadow, an indecipherable cause. O thin man of Hadam, why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird walks around the feet of the women about you? I know noble accents and lucid and escapable rhythms, but I know too that the blackbird is involved in what I know. When the blackbird flew out of sight, it marked the edge of one of many circles. At the sight of blackbirds flying in a green night, even the bods of euphony would cry out sharply. He rode over Connecticut in a glass coach, once a fear pierced him, in that he mistook the shadow of his equipage for blackbirds. The river is moving, the blackbird must be flying. It was evening all afternoon, it was snowing, and it was going to snow. The blackbird sat in the cedar limbs. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Fragment to Music by Percy Bish Shelley Read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli in Rome March 2008 Silver key of the fountain of tears, where the spirit drinks, till the brain is wild. Softest grave of a thousand fears, where their mother care, like a drowsy child, is laid asleep in flowers. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Triple Fool by John Don Read for LibriVox.org by Julie van Molychem I am two fools, I know, for loving and for saying so in whining poetry. But where's that wise man, that would not be I, if she would not deny? Then as the inward narrow crooked lanes do perch sea-water's fretful salt away, I thought, if I could draw my pains through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay. Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce, for he tames it, that fattest it inverts. But when I have done so, some man, his ardent voice to show, doth set and sing my pain, and by delighting many, freeze again grief, which first did restrain. To love and grief tribute of us belongs, but not of such as pleases went is read. Both are increased by such songs. For both their triumphs so are published, and I, which was two fools, do so grow three, who are little wise their best fools be. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Warble for lilac time by Walt Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, April 2008. Warble me now for joy and for lilac time, returning in reminiscence. Saw to me your tongue and lips for nature's sake, souvenirs of the earliest summer. Gather the welcome signs, as children with pebbles, or stringing shells. Put in April and May the hylas are croaking in the ponds, the elastic air, these butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes, bluebird and darting swallow. No forget the high hole flashing his golden wings. The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapour, shimmer of waters, with fish in them, the cerulean above. All that is jokened and sparkling, the brooks running, the maple woods, the crisp, fabry days, and the sugar making. The robin, where he hops bright-eyed, brown-brested, with musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset, or flitting among the trees of the apple orchard, building the nest of his maid. The melted snow of March, the will of sending forth its yellow green sprouts. For springtime is here, the summer is here. And what is this in it, and from it? Thou soul, unloosened, the restlessness after I know not what. Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up in the way. Oh, if one could but fly like a bird, oh to escape, to sail forth as in a ship, to glide with thee, oh soul, over all, in all, as a ship over the waters, gathering these hints, the preludes, the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew, the lilac sand, the bushes, with dark green heart-shaped leaves, wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence, samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere. It's grace the bush I love to sing with the birds, a whirlpool for joy of lilac time, returning in reminiscence. End of a poem. This recording is in the public domain. When Stars Are in the Quiet Skies by Edward Bauer Lytton. Read for Librevox.org by Mike. When Stars Are in the Quiet Skies, when most I pine for thee, bend on me then thy tender eyes as Stars look on the sea, for thoughts like waves that glide by night are stillest when they shine. Mine earthly love lies hushed in light beneath the heaven of thine. There is an hour when angels keep, familiar watch over men, when coarser souls are wrapped in sleep, sweet spirit meet me then. There is an hour when holy dreams through slumber ferris glide, and in that mystic hour it seems thou shouldst be by my side. My thoughts of thee too sacred are for daylight's common beam. I can but know thee as my star, my angel, and my dream. When Stars Are in the Quiet Skies, when most I pine for thee, bend on me then thy tender eyes as Stars look on the sea. End of a poem. This poem is in the public domain. Winter My Secret by Christina Georgina Rosetti. Read for Librevox.org by Juliva Malchem. I tell my secret. No indeed, not I. Perhaps some day, who knows. But not a day. It froze and blows and snows, and you're too curious. Why? You want to hear it? Well, only my secret's mine, and I won't tell. Or after all, perhaps there's none. Suppose there is no secret after all, but only just my fun. Today's a nipping day, a biting day, in which one wants a shawl, a veal, a cloak, and other wraps. I cannot hope to everyone who taps, and let the draught come whistling through my hull, come bounding and surrounding me, come buffeting astounding me, nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth. Whoever shows his nose to rush in snows to be packed at by every wind that blows, you would not pack. I thank you for your good will, believe, but leave the truth and test it still. Spring's an expensive time, yet I don't trust March with its pack of dust, nor Ape with its rainbow crowned-brief showers, nor even May, whose flowers won't frost me wither through the sun's hours. Perhaps some languid summer day, when drowsy birds is singing less and less, and golden fruit is ripening to excess. If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, and a warm wind is neither still nor loud.