 Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Caliban. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Craig Allen. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Clark Allison. September 24, 2007 in Prestonsburg, Kentucky. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Gemma Blythe. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by James Gladwin. Somerset September 2007. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights, the pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Katie Gibbany. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Laura Caldwell. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Lysa. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Mike Buckley. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Rena. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for a few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole, who sent a strain of music through an open door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Sean McGahy. DucktapeGuy.net This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for a few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole. Broadway by Sarah Teasdale. Red for LibriVox.org by Sean McGahy. DucktapeGuy.net This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for a few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole. This is The Quiet Hour. The theatres have gathered in their crowds, and steadily the million lights blaze on for a few to see, robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs. A somber man drifts by, and only we pass up the street unwearied, warm and free. For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights we live a little ere the charm is spent. This night is ours of all the golden nights. The pavement an enchanted palace floor, and youth the player on the viole. Who sent a strain of music through an open door.