A.D. 1400. by Charles Kingsley. Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia. A.D. 1400. 1. It was Earl Haldon's daughter. She looked across the sea. She looked across the water. And long and loud laughed she. The luxe of six princesses must be my marriage fee. So hey, Bonnie Boat, and ho, Bonnie Boat, who comes a-wooing me? 2. It was Earl Haldon's daughter. She walked along the sand, when she was aware of a night so fair, concealing to the land. His sails were all of velvet, his mast of beaten gold. And hey, Bonnie Boat, and ho, Bonnie Boat, who stale as he is so bold? 3. The luxe of five princesses I won beyond the sea. I shore their golden tresses to fringe a cloak for thee. One handful yet is wanting, but one of all the tale. So hey, Bonnie Boat, and ho, Bonnie Boat, fell up thy velvet sail. 4. He leapt into the water, that rover young and bold. He gripped Earl Haldon's daughter. He shore her luxe of gold.  The tale is full to-day. Now hey, Bonnie Boat, and ho, Bonnie Boat, sail westward ho, and away. 5. Advice to a Young Poet by Crockett McElroy Read for Liberbox.org by Thomas Peter First think of something good to say, then take great pains to say it well. Make sure you know the proper way to fairly write and rightly spell. Now clear all matter from your mind, accept the work you have in hand, and study hard until you find good rhyming words at your command. Compose one verse from end to end, with equal feet in every line. See that the words and meter blend, and that the rhyme is true and fine. Beware of mistakes when you write. Never say what needs correction, then men will say what human dite is poetry in perfection. Don't mix grand thoughts with silly ones, nor call men by improper names. If things weigh pounds, don't call them tons, nor make the world appear in flames. Remember you're an honest youth, and never write what is not true. Be governed by the laws of truth in everything you say or do. In language manly and refined, praise and song the heavenly plan, and use the lowers of your mind in lifting up your fellow man. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Affairwell by Anne Reeve Aldrich Read for Liberbox.org by Colleen McMahon What is the thing I most regret since now our love is over, and I have ceased adoring you and you're no more the lover? I most regret the hours apart we might have spent together. I grudged the happiness we lost before this change of weather. Why were we not more happy then, those fleeting days improving? Because we dreamed when age crept on, it still would find us loving. The present seems so sure to last we never thought to prize her. Ah, well I think next time we love, my dear, we'll each be wiser. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. America For Me by Henry Van Dyke Recorded for Liberbox.org by Daniel N. Hixon Tis fine to see the old world, and travel up and down, among the famous palaces and cities of renown, to admire the crumbling castles and the statues and kings, but now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. So it's home again, and home again, America for me, my heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, in the land of youth and freedom, beyond the ocean-bars, where the air is full of sunlight, and the flag is full of stars. Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air, and Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair, and it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome, but when it comes to living there is no place like home. I like the German fur woods in green battalions drilled, I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled, but oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day in the friendly western woodland where nature has her sway. I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack. The Paris is too much with her, and people looking back, but the glory of the present is to make the future free.  Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me, I want a ship that's westward bound to plow the rolling sea, to the blessed land of room enough beyond the ocean-bars, where the air is full of sunlight, and the flag is full of stars. End of Poem This recording is in the Public Domain. The Angler by Thomas Buchanan Read Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson But look, o'er the fall see the angler stand, Swinging his rod with skillful hand, The fly at the end of his gossamer line Swems through the sun like a summer moth, Till, dropped with a careful precision fine, It touches the pool beyond the froth. A sudden, The speckled hawk of the brook, Darts from his cover and seizes the hook. Swift spins the reel, With easy slip the line pays out, And the rod, like a whip, Lithe and arrowy, Tapering, slim, Is bent to a bow or the brooklet's brim, Till the trout leaps up in the sun And flings the spray From the flash of his finny wings, Then falls on his side and drunken with fright, Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge, Till beached at last on the sandy marge, Where he dies with the hues of the morning light. While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright, The angler in his basket lays The constellation and goes his ways. I marked at the foot of a tree The grave of a soldier, Mortally wounded he, And buried on the retreat, Easily all could I understand. The halt of a midday hour went up, No time to lose, Yet this sign left, On a tablet scrawled and nailed On the tree by the grave. Bold, cautious, true, And my loving comrade. Long, long I muse, Then on my way go wandering, Many a changeful season to follow, And many a scene of life. Yet at times, through changeful season and scene, Abrupt, alone, or in the crowded street, Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave. Comes the inscription, Rude in Virginia's woods, Bold, cautious, true, And my loving comrade. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Ballad of Slumber by Ann Reeve Aldrich Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon The first sleep that my love slept He had upon the grass, Stretched low beneath my casement pain Until the night should pass, I leaned forth and looked down on him At midwatch of the night, Upon his hair all drenched with dew A waning moon shown white. The second sleep my love slept His head was on my breast. I grieved the hour must pass So fame was I to watch his rest. I bent and kissed his listless lips, Curled, redly, half apart.  The last sleep that my love slept Shall last till judgment day, In corner of the litchyard close, Neath drooping boughs of May. Another sleeps upon my breast, My dead love does not care. He could not feel my kisses now Nor do that drenched his hair. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed by Jonathan Swift Written for the Honour of the Fair Sex, 1731 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Copeland Corina, pride of Jury Lane, For whom no shepherd sighs in vain. Never did Covent Garden boast so bright A battered, strolling toast. No drunken rake to pick her up, No cellar where unticked to suck, Returning at the midnight hour Four stories climbing to her bower. Then, seated on the three-legged chair, Takes off her artificial hair. Now, picking out a crystal eye, She wipes it clean and lays it by. Her eyebrows, from a mouse's hide, Stuck on with art and either side, Pulls off with care, and first displays them, Then, in a playbook, smoothly lays them. Now, dexterously, her plumper's draws That serve to fill her hollow jaws, And twists a wire, and from her gums A set of teeth completely comes. Pulls out the rags, contrived To proper flabby dugs, And down they drunk. Proceeding on, the lovely goddess Unlaces next her steel-ripped bodice, Which, by the operator's skill, Dress down the lumps, the hollows fill. Up goes her hand, and off she slips The bolsters that supply her hips. With gentlest touch, she next Explores her cankers, issues, Running sores, effects of many a sad disaster, And then, to each, applies a plaster, But must, before she goes to bed, Rub off the dobs of white and red, And smooth the furrows in her front, With greasy paper-stuck-a-thot. She takes a bolus ere she sleeps, And then between two blankets creeps. With pains of love tormented lies, Or, if she chants to close her eyes, Abride well in the compter-dreams, And feels the lash and faintly screams, Or, by a faithless bully drawn, That some hedged tavern lies in pond, Or to Jamaica seems transported Alone, and by no planter courted. Or, near-fleet ditches, oozy brink, Surrounded with a hundred stinks, Belated seems unwatched to lie, And snaps some culley passing by. Or, struck with fear, Her fancy runs on watchmen, Constables and duns, From whom she meets with frequent rubs, But never from religious clubs, Whose favour she is sure to find, Because she pays them all in kind. Carina wakes, a dreadful sight, Behold the ruins of the night, A wicked rat her plaster stole, Half-et, and dragged it to his hole. The crystal eyelass was missed, And Puss head on her plumpers pissed.  The nymph, though in this mangled plight, Must every mourn her limbs unite. But how shall I describe her arts To recollect the scattered parts? Or show the anguished toil and pain Of gathering up herself again? The bashful muse will never bear In such a scene to interfere. Carina, in the morning dyesened, Who sees will spew, Who smells be poisoned.  Then awakening, remembrance, Pain, regret, your sobbing, And again, quiet, the stars, Twilight, and you. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Blushing Rose, by Ellen Russell Emerson, Read for Liberox.org by Thomas Peter. A legend. There was a stir among the roses, One dewy morn in June. It was where the south wind air reposes, And sings a soothing tune through the summer day. There was a whir and hum and sighing Unusual in their rank, One damask rose, their scorn defying In some disgraceful prank, Wet a foreign flower. A crime so great in Rose Empire, That capital punishment Was judged to such a law defyre, And death or banishment Was the sentence given. The rose had stood apart from others, And reared its crest so grand, And flaming colors, That his brothers grew jealous of his stand, While they jeered at him. It was true the rose Was rather dashing, and scarce was known to bend, When rain and wind and fury lashing The bumbler flowers Would send whirling to the ground. But he was generous oft, And lavished his fragrance everywhere, Until the air would wait And ravished to wreath within its hair, Sweets so careless strewn. One lovelet morn the rose was coughing From Oberon's cup of dew, While in the east a star stood laughing And shaking as he knew What the goblet was. When sudden, as he sat there sipping, A little voice called out from neighbouring thicket, I am dipping my lip where Niyad's pout, Will I not be sweet? Now such a question should have answer, Be thought the stately rose, For prince or noble, knight or lancer, His heart would never close To voice like that. And then with one of his green branches, He makes a cleaving sweep, On either side swift blows he launches, Then takes a hurried peep, where the thicket breaks. And down within the covert smiling There stood a snowy rose, And bright she looked as though beguiling The shade its wings to close, Twas the lily rose, and very fair, And so was thinking the rosy damask rose, And while he stood abashed and blinking And dreaming what he knows, Damask rose should not. A dustered hummingbird came winging Through opening he had clove, With swagger and dare-doose singing, As though now he might rove Just where he might list. And with a soft complacent twirling Around the fairy rose, He sought by hum and subtle whirling To dazzle the one he chose, There's wherein he erred. The angry damask rose could not bear this, And with a plunge he thrust the bird With thorny ponyard. Where this? cried he, Until it rust feverish hummingbird. The little snowy rose all trembling At such a murderous sight, As coily thought she was dissembling Some other thought by fright, Love would feign disguise. Too sad to see thee tremble, Rosie, Too sad to sweet love mine. Shy dimples chased the grief of Rosie, While spoke this rose so fine. Twas wicked quite. Then damask rose with thought of going, And yet he waited still. A sudden wind, the white rose blowing, Did seem to serve his will. Aye, she was so sweet. Then was a stir among the roses, And he was ostracised, While now their soft reposes On white rose thus despised Blush of damask cheek. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. You'll find the sink strike your offended sense With double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine, You'll spend in coach hire more than save in wine. A coming shower you're shooting Corns per sage, Old Aches throb, your hollow tooth grow rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dalman's scene, He damns the climate and complains of spleen. Meanwhile, the south, rising with doubled wings, A sable cloud thwart the welkin flings, That swilled more liquor than it could contain, And like a drunkard gives it up again. Risk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is born a slope. Such is that sprinkling, Which some careless queen flirts on you from her mop, But not so clean. You fly, invoke the gods, Then turning stop to rail, She's singing still worlds on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, But aided by the wind fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, To a stoutful which was rain and which was dust. Ah, where must needy poets seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? So, coat, where dust cemented by the rain, Erects the nap and leaves a cloudy stay. Now, in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deruge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing by. The Templars, Bruce, while every spout's abroach, Stays tilled his fare, yet seems to call a coach. The tucked-up Semstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oiled umbrella sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath the shed. Tri-inventories and desponding wigs forget their fumes, And join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the bow impatient sits, While spouts run clattering of the roof by fits, And ever and on, with frightful din the leather sounds, He trembles from within. So, when Troy Chairman bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, Those bully Greeks who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying Chairman ran them through. They awkward and struck the outside with his spear, And each imprisoned he row quaked for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go, Filth of all hues and odour seem to tell What street they sail from, by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force, From Smithfield or St. Pulkers shape the course, And in huge confluence joined at Snow Hill Ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Obernd Ridge.  End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. CLM by John Maysfield, led for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. CLM. In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man.  I cannot see nor breathe nor stir, But through the death of some of her. Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find her Beauty dusty in the mind. If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son. I'm so grown. If we should meet, she would pass me by in the street. Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me. What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and woman kind? What woman's happier life repays her For those months of wretched days?  What have I done or tried or said, In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. If it be thy will. And we will talk till talk is a trouble, too, Out on the side of the hill, And nothing is left to do, But an eye to look into an eye, And a hand and a hand to slip, And a sigh to answer a sigh, And a lip to find out a lip. What if the night be black, And the air and the mountain chill? Where the goat lies down in a track, And all but the fern is still?  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Darest Thou now, O soul, By Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org. By Winston Tharp. Darest Thou now, O soul, Walk out with me toward the unknown region Where neither ground is for the feet Nor any path to follow. No map there, nor guide, Nor voice sounding, Nor touch of human hand, Nor face with blooming flesh, Nor lips, nor eyes are in that land. I know it not, O soul. Nor dost Thou, all is a blank before us, All waits undreamed of in that region, That inaccessible land. Till when the ties loosen, All but the ties eternal, Time and space, Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, Nor any bounds bound us. Then we burst forth, We float in time and space, O soul, prepared for them, Equal, equipped at last, O joy, O fruit of all, Them to fulfill, O soul. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Paul Lawrence Dunbar. By James D. Carruthers. Read for LibriVox.org. By Larry Wilson. He came, a youth singing in the dawn Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre, Refining as with great Apollo's fire His people's gift of song. And there upon this negro singer Came to Halakon, constrained the masters, Listening to admire, and roused a race To wonder and aspire. Gazing which way their honest voice Was gone, with ebb and face Uplit of glorious crest, Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, Who brought the cabin's mirth, The tuneful night, but faced the morning Beautiful with light, to die While shadows yet fell toward the west, And leave his laurels at his people's feet. Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now.  Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew Fell early on the bays upon your brow, And tinged with pathos every Halcyon vow, And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you through flower-its of love. Or if an envious few of your own people Brought no garlands, how could malice Might him whom the gods had crowned? If like the meadowlark your flight was low, Your flooded lyrics half the hill-tops drowned. A wide world heard you, and it loved you so. It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, And o'er your happy songs its plot its rang. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Earthly Paradise by Flora Thompson Read for LibriVox.com by Zana. I desire no heaven of gold harps, Give me the harps of earth, pine trees With red gold on their stems, The music of the west wind in their branches. When I am old, give me for heaven A little house set on a heath, the blue hills behind, The blue sea before, the brick floors scoured crimson, The flagstones like snow, the brass taps, And candlesticks like gold. There in my soft gray gown between the hollyhocks, Upon a day of days I would welcome an old poet, And pour him tea, and walk on the heath, And talk the sun down. And then, by the wood fire, He should read me the poems of his passionate youth, And make new ones praising friendship above love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ebtide by Susan Coolidge Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk Long reaches of wet grasses sway, Where ran the sea but yesterday, And white-winged boats at sunset drew To anchor in the crimsoning blue. The boats lie on the grassy plain, Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain, Their errand done, their impulse spent, Chained by an alien element. With sails unset, they idly lie, Though morning beckons brave and nigh, Like wounded birds their flight denied, They lie and long and wait the tide. About their keels within the net Of tough grass fibers green and wet, A myriad thirsty creatures pent In sorrowful imprisonment, Await the beat, distinct and sweet Of the white waves returning feet. My soul their vigil joins, And shares a nobler discontent, Then theirs, a thirst like them, I patiently sit listening. Beside the sea, and still the waters outward glide, When is the turning of the tide? Come, pulse of God, come heavenly thrill, We wait thy coming, and we will. The world is vast and very far, Its utmost verge and boundaries are, But thou hast kept thy word today, In India, and in dim Cathay, And the same mighty care shall reach Each humblest rock-pool of this beach, The gasping fish, the stranded keel, This dull dry soul of mine shall feel, Thy freshening touch and satisfied, Shall drink the fullness of the tide. The Expulsion from Spain, 1492 By Ludwig A. Frankel, 1810-1894 Look, they move! No comrades near but curses, Tears gleam in beards of men, Soar with reverses, Flowers from fields abandoned, Loving nurses fondly decked The women's raven hair. Faded, sentless flowers that shall Remind them of their precious homes And graves behind them, Old men, clasping torus grows, Unbind them, lift the parchment flags In silent lead. Mock not with thy light, O sun, our moral, Cease not, cease not, O ye songs of sorrow, For what land a refuge can we borrow, Weary, thrust out, God-forsaken we. Could ye, suffering souls, peer through the future, From despair ye would awake to rapture? Lo, the Genoese boldly steers to capture Freedom's realm beyond an un-sailed sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Farewell By Susan Coolidge Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok Go, sun, since go you must. The dusky evening lowers above our sky, Our sky which was so blue and sweetly fair. Night is not terrible that we should sigh, A little darkness we can surely bear. Will there not be more sunshine, by and by? Go, rose, since go you must. Flowerless and chill, the winter draws nigh. Closed are the blithe and fragrant lips, Which made, all summer-long, perpetual melody. Cheerless we take our way, but not afraid. Will there not be more roses, by and by? Go, love, since go you must. Out of our pain we bless you as you fly. The momentary heaven, the rainbow-lit, Was worth whole days of black and stormy sky. Shall we not see, as by the waves we sit? Your bright sail, winging shoreward, By and by.  Uncertain guest and whimsical ally. All questionless you came, unquestioned go. What does it mean to live, or what to die? Smiling we watch you vanish, for we know. Somewhere is nobler living. By and by. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. God Save the Flag, by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel N. Hickson. Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, Burning with starfires but never consuming, Flash his broad ribbons of lily and rose. Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall. Thousands have died for it, millions defend it, Emblem of justice and mercy to all. Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, Mercy that comes with her white-handed train, Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors, Sheathing the saber and breaking the chain. Born on the deluge of all usurpations, Drifted our ark or the desolate seas, Baring the rainbow of hope to the nations, Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze. God bless the flag and its loyal defenders, While its broad folds or the battlefield wave, Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors, Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. God's Granger by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out like shining from shook foil. It gathers to a greatness like the ooze of oil crushed. Why do men then not wreck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod. And all is seared with trade, Bleared, smeared with toil, And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell. The soil is bare now, nor can foot feel being shod. And for all this nature is never spent. There lives the dearest freshness, Deep down things, and through the last light, Off the black west, went o' morning At the brown-brink eastward springs. Because the holy ghost over the bent world Broods with warm breast, and with, ah, bright wings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Feet of Judas by George Mary McClellan Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Christ washed the feet of Judas The dark and evil passions of his soul His secret plot, the sordidness, complete His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole And still in love he stooped and washed his feet Christ washed the feet of Judas Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him His bargain with the priest, and more than this In Olivet beneath the moonlight dim A forehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss Christ washed the feet of Judas And so ineffable his love to us meet That pity fill his great forgiving heart And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet Who in his Lord had basely sold his part Christ washed the feet of Judas And thus a girded servant, south abased, Taught that no wrong this side of the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced And though unasked, the spirit be forgiven And so if we have ever felt the wrong of trampled rites Of caste it matters not What ere the soul has felt or suffered long O heart this one thing should not be forgot Christ washed the feet of Judas End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Lawyers' Ways by Paul Laurence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Mary Patterson I've been listening to them lawyers In the courthouse of the street And I come to the conclusion that I'm most completely beat First one fella rise to argue And he boldly waded in as he dressed the trembling prisoner In a coat of deep-dyed sin Why, he painted him all over in a hue-o-blackest crime And he smeared his reputation with the thickest kind of grime Till I found myself a-wondering in a misty way and dim How the Lord had come to fashion such an awful man as him Then the other Lawyers started And with brim and tearful eyes Said his client was a martyr that was brought to sacrifice And he gave to that same prisoner every blessed human grace Till I saw the light of virtue fairly shining from his face Then I owned and I was puzzled how such things could rightly be And this aggravating question seems to keep a puzzling me So will someone please inform me? And this mystery unroll? How an angel and a devil can possess the self-same soul End of poem This recording is in the public domain On a Lock of My Mother's Hair by Anacora Mallett Read for LibriVox.org by KTaylor07 February 6th, 2020 www.tla.wapshotpress.org Who's the eyes thou airsted shade Down what bosom hast thou rolled Or what cheek unchidden played Tress of mingle brown and gold Round what brow say dits thou twine Angel mother it was thine Cold the brow that wore this braid Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed Dim the eye it loved to shade Still the ever-gentle breast All that bosom struggle passed When it held this ring at last In that happy home above Where all perfect joy hath birth Thou dispensest good and love Mother as thou did on earth And though distant seems that sphere Still I feel thee ever near Though my longing eye now views Thy angelic mean no more Still thy spirit can infuse Good in mine unknown before Still the voice from childhood dear Stills upon my raptured ear Chiding every wayward deed Fondly praising every just Whispering soft when strength I need Loved when placing God thy trust Oh, tis more than joy to feel Thou art watching for my wheel End of poem This reading is in the public domain The Lotus Flower by Roderick Quinn Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist All the heights of the high shores gleam Red and gold at the sunset hour There comes the spell of a magic dream And the harbour seems a lotus flower A blue flower tinted at dawn with gold A broad flower blazing with light at noon A flower forever with charms to hold His heart who sees it by sun or moon Its beauty burns like a ceaseless fire And tower looks over the top of tower For all mute things it would seem Aspire to catch a glimpse of the lotus flower Men meet its beauty with furrowed face And straight the furrows are smoothed away They buy and sell in the marketplace And languor leadens their blood all day At night they look on the flower and lo The city passes with all its cares They dream no more in its azure glow Of gold and silver and stocks and shares The lotus dreams, neath the dreaming skies Its beauty touching with spell divine The grey old town Till the old town lies like one half drunk With magic wine Star loved, it breathes at the midnight hour A sense of peace from its velvet mouth Though flowers be fair, is there any flower Like this blue flower of the radiant south? Sun loved and lit by the moon It yields a challenge glory or glow serene And men rethink them of jeweled shields A turquoise lighting, a ground of green Fond lovers pacing beside it see Not death and darkness, but life and light And dream no dream of the witchery The lotus sheds on the silent night Pale watchers weary of watching stars that fall And fall and forever fall Tier one and troubled with many scars They seek the lotus and end life's thrall The spirit spelled by the lotus swims Its beauty summons the artist mood And thus perchance in a thousand moons Its spell shall work in our waiting blood Then souls shall shine with an old-time grace And scents be wrapped in a golden trance An art be crowned in the marketplace With love and beauty and fair romance End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Medusa by Robert Kelly Weeks Read for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez One calm and cloudless winter night Under a moonless sky Once I had seen the gracious light Of sunset fade and die I stood alone a little space Where tree nor building bars its outlook In a desert place, the best to see the stars No sound was in the frosty air No light below the skies I looked above and unaware Looked in Medusa's eyes The eyes that neither laugh nor weep That neither hope nor fear That neither watch nor dream nor sleep Nor sympathize nor sneer The eyes that nor reject nor choose Nor question nor reply That neither pardon nor accuse That yield not nor defy The eyes that hide not nor reveal That trust not nor betray That acquiesce not nor appeal The eyes that never pray O love that will not be forgot O love that leaves alone O love that blinds and blesses not O love that turns to stone End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Mont Pernasse by Ernest Hemingway Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman There are never any suicides in the quarter Among people one knows Knows successful suicides A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead They continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the dome A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead No one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone They find a model dead alone in bed and very dead It made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds And stomach pumps rescue the people one knows Every afternoon the people one knows Can be found at the cafe End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Negroes Complaint by William Cooper 1731-1800 Read for LibriVox.org The Negroes Complaint Forced from home and all its pleasures Afriks Coast I left for Lorne To increase a stranger's treasures Or the raging billows borne Men from England bought and sold me Paid my price in paltry gold But though slave they have enrolled me Mines are never to be sold Still in thought as free as ever What are England's rights I ask Me from my delights to sever Me to torture, me to task Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature's claim Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same Why did all creating nature make the plant for which we toil Size must fan it Tears must water Sweat of ours must dress the soil Think, ye masters iron-hearted Lollying at your jovial boards Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there one who reigns on high? Has he bid you by and sell us? Speaking from his throne the sky Ask him if your knotted scourges Matches, blood-extorting screws Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use Hark, he answers, wild tornadoes Strewing yonder sea with ricks Wasting towns, plantations, meadows Are the voice with which he speaks He foreseen what vexation's affric sun should undergo Fix their tyrant's habitations Where his whirlwinds answer, no! By our blood in affric wasted Are our necks received the chain By the miseries that we tasted Crossing in your bark's domain By our suffering since you brought us To the man-degrading mart All sustained by patience Taught us only by a broken heart Deem our nation brutes no longer Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger Than the color of our kind Slaves of gold whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers Prove that you have human feelings Are you proudly question ours? End of poem This recording is in the public domain The New Bart's Legacy by James Henry Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The New Bart's Legacy When in death I shall calm recline O, bear my watch to my mistress dear Tell her I rose when it pointed nine On every morning all round the year Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a gem so precious and bright But a pocket of crimson velvet borrow And hang it beside her bed every night When the light of mine eyes is o'er Take my specks to optician's hall And let the porter that answers the door Show them to all that happen to call Then, if some Bart who roams forsaken Should beg a peep through them in passing along O, let one sort of their master awaken Your warmest smile for the child of song Keep this ink-bottle now overflowing To write your letters when I'm laid low Never, O, never one drop bestowing On any who how to write don't know But if some pale one wasted scholar Shall dip his goose quill at its brim Then, then my spirit around shall hover And hello each jet-black drop for him Karlsruhe, January 9th, 1856 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The New Negro by Will Sexton Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington Out of the mist I see a new America, a land of ideals I hear the music of my fathers blended with the stars and stripes forever I am the crown of thorns tyranny must bear a thousand years I am the New Negro End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Aware for Me No Sable Hue by Anna Coral-Malwit Read for LibriVox.org by KTailor07 February 5th, 2020 www.tla.wapshotpress.org Aware for Me No Sable Hue No garb of blazing grief when I Shall bid this gladsome earth adieu And fling my spirit's garment by Nor mark the spot with urn or stone Where worthless dust unconscious lies Within your loving hearts alone The monument I ask should rise And shed for me no bitter tear Nor breathe my name in mournful tone Your smiles twas mine to waken here And I should think them still my own Nor link my image with regret A pleasant memory I would be To consecrate and brighten yet The scenes that once were dear to me All why should tears bid you the sod Where some beloved ones ashes rest The soul rejoiceth near its god And can you mourn the spirit blessed Then weep not for the loved one fled To realms more pure, a home more fair And call not the departed dead She lives, she loves, she waits you there End of poem This reading is in the public domain Oklahoma by Ernest Hemingway Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman All the Indians are dead A good Indian is a dead Indian Or riding in motorcars The oil lands, you know, they're all rich Smoke smarts my eyes Cottonwood twigs and buffalo dung Smoke gray in the teepee Or is it myopic trachoma The prairies are long The moon rises Ponies drag at their pickets The grass has gone brown in the summer Or is it the hay crop failing Pull an arrow out If you break it, the wound closes Salt is good too And wood ashes Pounding at throbs in the night Or is it the gonorrhea End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Optimist by J. W. Hammond Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington Who would have the sky any color but blue Or the grass any color but green Or the flowers that bloom the summer through Of any other color or sheen How the sunshine gladdens the human heart How the sound of the falling rain Will cause the tender tears to start And free the soul from pain Oh this old world is a great old place And I love each season's change The river, the brook of pearl and grace The valley, the mountain range And when I am called to quit this life My feet will not spurn the sod Though I leave this world with its beauty rife There's a glorious one with God End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Ruin Chapel from 16 Poems by William Allingham Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman By the shore a plot of ground Clips a Ruin Chapel round Buttressed with a grassy mound Where day and night and day go by And bring no touch of human sound Washing of the lonely seas Shaking of the guardian trees Piping of the salted breeze Day and night and day go by To the endless tune of these Or when, as winds and water keep A hush more dead than any sleep Still mourns the stiller evening's creep And day and night and day go by Here the silence is most deep The empty ruins lapped again Into nature's wide domain So themselves with seed and grain As day and night and day go by And Horde June's sun and April's rain Here fresh funeral tears were shed Now the graves are also dead And suckers from the ash tree spread While day and night and day go by And stars move calmly overhead And of poem This recording is in the public domain The Seasons by Richard Chenevick Strange Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The Seasons 1. Winter White ermine now the mountains wear To shield their naked shoulders bare The dark pine wears the snow As head of Ethiope the thwite turban wear The floods are armed to silver shields Through which the sun's sort cannot fare For he, who in the mid-heaven road In golden arms, on golden chair Now through small corner of the sky Creeps low nor warms the foggy air To mutter, twigs, dead teeth The streams in icy fetters scarcely dare Hushed is the busy hum of life To silence in the earth and air From mountain issues the gaunt wolf And from its forest depth the bear Where is the garden's beauty now? The thorn is here The rose, oh, where? The trees like giant skeletons Wave high their fleshless arms and bear Or stand like wrestlers, stripped and bold And strongest winds to battle dare It seems a thing impossible That earth its glories should repair That ever this bleak world again Should bright and butch's mantle wear Or sounds of life again be heard In this dull earth and vacant air 2. Spring Who was it that so lately said All pulses in thy heart were dead, old earth That now in fester robes Appear as a bright new wed? Oh, wrapped so late in winding sheet Thy winding sheet, oh, where is fled? Lo, there's an emerald carpet now Where the young monarch spring may tread He comes, and the defeated king Old winter to the hills is fled The warm wind broke his frosty spear And loosed the helmet from his head And he weak showers of airy sleet For his strongholds has vainly sped All that was sleeping is awake And all is living that was dead Who, listens now, can hear the streams Leap tinkling down their pebbly bed Or see them from their fetters free Like silver snakes the meadows thread The joy, the life, the hope of earth They slept a while, they were not dead Oh, thou who sayst, thy see a heart never With Virgil can again be spread Oh, thou who mourn as them that sleep Low lying in an earthy bed Look out on this reviving world And be new hopes within thee bread 3. Summer Now seems all nature to conspire As to dissolve the world in fire Which dies among its odorous sweets A phoenix on its funeral pyre Simon breathes hotly from the waste The green earth quits its green attire Floats over the plain the liquid heat Cheating the travellers' fond desire Illusion, fear of lake and stream Receding as he draws nire Ice is more precious now than gold Snow more than silver, man, desire Tis far to seek unfailing wells For tender maid or aged sire Men know the worth of water now And learn to prize God's blessing higher The shallow pools have disappeared Caked into iron is the mire So clouds of dust, the crimson sun Glayers on the earth in lurid ire The parched earth with thirsty lips Is gasping, ready to expire Oh, happy, who by liquid streams In shady gardens can retire Where murmuring falls and whispering trees Sweet slumber to invite conspire Or where he may deceive the time With volume sage or pensive lyre Four, autumn Dying autumn is unwelcome lore To tell the world its pomp is o'er To whisper in the roses ear That all her beauty is no more And bid her own the faith how vain Which spring to her so lately swore A queen deposed, she quits her state The nightingales her fall deplore The hundred-voiced bird may woo The thousand-leaved flower no more The jasmine sings its head in shame The sharp east wind it stresses shore And robbed, in passing cruelly The tulip of the crown it wore The lily's sword is broken now That was so bright and keen before And not a blast can blow But strews with the leaf of gold The earth-tank-floor The piping winds sing nature's dirge As through the forest bleak they roar Whose leafy screen, like locks of elk Each day shows gantier than before Thou fadest as a flower, O man A fruit from using here is store O man, thou fallest as a leaf Pace thoughtfully earth-leaves-troom floor Welcome the sadness of the time And lay to heart this natural lore End of poem This recording is in the public domain A single stitch By Susan Coolidge Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk One stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble shuttle to and fro In and out beneath above till the pattern seemed To bud and grow as if the fairies had helping been One small stitch which could scarce be seen But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out And a weak place grew in the fabric stout And the perfect pattern was marred for a By the one small stitch that was dropped that day One small life in God's great plan How futile it seems as the ages roll Do what it may or strive how it can To alter the sweep of the infinite whole A single stitch in an endless web A drop in the ocean's flow and ebb But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its master meant End of poem This recording is in the public domain The whiteed air hides hills and woods the river and the heaven And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end The sled and traveller stopped the courier's feet delayed All friends shut out the housemates sit around the radiant fireplace Enclosed in a tumultuous privacy of storm Come see the north wind's masonry Out of an unseen quarry evermore furnished with tile The fierce artificer curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door Speeding the myriad-handed His wild work so fanciful, so savage Not cares he for number or proportion Mockingly, on coop or kennel he hangs perian reeds A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall Mogger the farmer's size And at the gate a tapering turret over tops the work And when his hours are numbered and the world is all his own Retiring as he were not leaves when the sun appears Astonished art to mimic in slow structures stone by stone Built in an age the mad wind's night work The frolic architecture of the snow End of poem This recording is in the public domain Some woman to some man by Edith Wharton Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf We might have loved each other after all Have lived and learned together, yet I doubt it You ask, I think, too great a sacrifice Or else perhaps I rate myself too dear Whichever way the difference lies between us Would common cares have helped to lessen it A common interest, a common lot, who knows indeed We choose our path and then stand looking back And sighing at our choice and say Perhaps the other road had led to fruitful valleys dozing in the sun Perhaps, perhaps, but all things are perhaps And either way there lies a doubt, you know We've but one life to live and fifty ways to live it in And little time to choose the one in fifty that will suit us best And so the end is that we part and say We might have loved each other after all End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Song from the East by Ann Reeve Aldrich Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon O Western land, O glorious sunset land My feet have never trod thy wondrous ways Mine eyes have never rested on thy plains Or mountains clad in purple haze And yet I feel beyond the power of speech An alien from my spirit's proper home A thankless daughter of the fostering East I turn from her, with sick desire to roam Until I find the land for which I yearn As homesick child might pine for mother's breast The East must keep my body but my soul Longs for the broader regions of the West End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Song of Keats by Roderick Quinn Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Tis a tarnished book and old edges frayed and covers green But between the covers Gold Gold and jewels in between And this written See, oh, see, how old time has made it dim For one Song Keats gave to me I kneel down And worship him He who wrote these lines is dust All of him is passed away Some hand closed his eyes I trust Drew the blind to darkened day Did lips kiss him at the end? Love lips, tremulous, yet brave Had he mistress, child, or friend To sow green grass upon his grave? Nay, we know not It is long since he tired of life's deceits Closed his ears to scy and song Parted with this book, John Keats Year by year the poet thrives Summer smiles and winter weeps La belde ence enmerci lives But a heart that loved her sleeps Who would woeful go to miss Roses red in thorns arrayed When he might, with sureer bliss, Love a milk-white devon made Beauty kindles man's desire Beauty dwindles, growing faint But the girls who never tire Are the girls that poets paint When the moon has taken wings And the twilight hour is come Gray the woods and no birds sing Gray the world beyond and dumb Neither light is there nor breeze Rose to redden, thorn to pain Till look, look, among the trees A sudden bird, a scarlet stain So he tired of fate's defeats Life's dead trees and woodland's grim Till sudden sweet a song of key Till sudden sweet a song of Keats One magic moment gave to him End of poem, this recording is in the public domain North East, a cold wind Beyond the waste of broad muddy fields Brown with dried weeds standing And fallen patches of standing water The scattering of tall trees All along the road the reddish purplish Forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff Of bushes and small trees With dead brown leaves under them Leafless vines Lifeless in appearance Slogish, dazed spring approaches They enter the new world naked Cold, uncertain of all save that they enter All about them the cold, familiar wind Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl Of wild carrot leaf One by one objects are defined It quickens, clarity, outline of leaf But now the stark dignity of entrance Still the profound change has come upon them Rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Nymphs are charming as anew And John Blue Dome acquires a richer hue Waked from its winter sleep on gauzy wing The butterfly flits past no more to cling A sleigh forlorn to some enamoured branch How joyfully the laughing lilies launch Their dainty barks They safe at anchor swing In many a silvin' nook Swift and free, the swallow skims A thwart the river's breast A burnished emblem of the glancing sea Which ever glimmers in a vague unrest An image beautiful, content to be By minds diverse and diverse colours dressed End of poem, this recording is in the public domain I took a boat on a starry night And went for a row on the water And she danced like a child on a wake of light And bowed where the ripples caught her I vowed as I rode on the velvet blue Through the night and the starry splendour To woo and sue a maiden I knew Till she bent to my pleading's tender My painted boat she was light and glad And gladder my heart with wishing And I came in time to a little lad Who stood on the rocks a-fishing I said ahoy, and he said ahoy And I asked how the fish were biting And what are you trying to catch, my boy? Bream, silver, and red or whiting? Neither, he answered, the seaweed marrs my line And the sharp shells sunder I am trying my luck with those great big stars Down there in the round skies under Goodbye from him, and goodbye from me And never a laugh came after So many go fishing for stars in the sea That it's hardly a subject for laughter End of poem This recording is in the public domain St. Valentine's Day By Edward Abram Uppington Valentine Read for LibriVox.org By Anita Sloma Martinez At morn unto my windowsill Dan Cupid comes to learn my will Friend cries my little winged guest Has thou for me no amorous quest Is there no maid to whom thou'dst say I love thee on this festival day? Cupid I answer, there's a maid of whom my coward heart's afraid Not bold am I for lover's bliss I'll send thee rogue to steal my kiss And bear with thee the scarlet rose As token how my bosom glows Then Cupid thus, oh that will I And hid therein I'll play the spy And when the rose hath caught her sight She'll kiss it sure for pure delight Then shall I pierce her with my dart A bee she'll think is at its heart The while she standeth startled there I shall have vanished in the air But her sweet presence hovering near Thy name I'll whisper in her ear And of the mystery knot she'll make She'll think it was her heart that spake End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sunday Afternoon by Osbert Stillwell Read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson The guilt-fringed earth has sadly spun A sector of its lucent arc About the disillusioned sun of autumn The bright angry spark of heaven In each upturned eye Denotes religious ecstasy We too have spun our Sunday round Of church and beef and aftersleep In houses where obtuse no sound But breathing regular and deep Till Sabbath's sentiment well fed Demands a visit to the dead For autumn leaves and sad thoughts Beget as from life's tree they glatter down And death has caught some in her net Even on Sunday in this town Though money and food and sleep are sweet The dead leaves rattle down the street Fat bodies silk and meshed inflate their way along If death comes soon they'll leave this Food-sweet earth to float heavenward Like some huge balloon Religion dims each vacant eye As we approach the cemetery Proudly we walk with care we bend To lead our children by the hand Here where all rich and poor must end The portal to a better land To which, if good business, We have hereditary access Where to afford the saints we leave from prayer And from religious questions round after round Of deathless beef flatters celestial digestions Where, in white robe with golden crown We watch our enemies sent down to other spheres While we lean out, divine as pity in our eyes And wonder why these sinners flout Are kindly pitying surprise Why look so angry when we play Our gold harps as they go away A hem-tune, dear familiar But now we stand within the space Where marble females drape a tear Above a whiskered marble face Isn't it pretty? Even now rich and exotic blossoms Grow about each granite monument of men Fraud-coded unaware of judgment What emolument requites a weeping willow's care? Look, over there a broken column Is watched by one geranium Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold damnation And eternal fire To those who will not reckon gold Who are not worthy of their hire For marble tombs are prized above such brittle things As thought or love The crystal web of dusk now clings from evergreen To tropic tree, tossed by the wind And subtly brings a mingled scent of mold and tea That causes silence to be rent by one scream Childish but intent For children will not realize that they should rest without a sound With folded hands and downcast eyes here In the saint's recruiting ground And so in sorrow we turn back To hasten on our high tea-track But after in the night we dream of heaven As a marbled bank in which in one continual stream We give our goal for heavenly rank Where each saint standing like a sentry Explains a mystic double entry The director of the bank is God Stares our foals coldly in the face But gives us quite a friendly nod And beckons us to share his place End of poem This recording is in the public domain This is my letter to the world Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Ferry, 252 This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me The simple news that nature told With tender majesty Her message is committed To hands I cannot see For love of her sweet countrymen Judge tenderly of me End of poem This recording is in the public domain Three Prayers By Dwight Munson Hodge, 1846-1906 Read for LibriVox.org Three Prayers Three camels or hot desert sands Bore travelers from diverse lands When far domes gleamed in hazy air One said it is a time for prayer A lighting in his camel's shade Each bowed him to the earth and prayed And each one named his heart's desire That flamed from out the inward fire The first one prayed The second one said Any heaven at last to win When yawns the grave my soul should rise To walk with thee in paradise The last one prayed O heart above, whose ways are hid But hid in love Give me through pain and loss and strife To enter deeper into life End of poem This recording is in the public domain To Isabelle M By Anna Cormawan Read for LibriVox.org By Kay Taylor S7 February 6, 2020 www.tla.wapshotpress.org Forever vanished from thy cheek Is life's unfolding rose Forever quenched the flashing smile That conscious beauty knows Thine orbs are lustrous with a light Which ne'er elumes the eye Till heaven is bursting on the sight And earth is fleeting by The bridal chaplet scarce have paled Upon thy lovely brow And scarce thy gentle lips have breathed The holy, natural vow But taintless as thy bridal flowers Thou witherest as they fade And soon we may not hear the tone That hath such music made But ah, oblivion shrouds thee not For thy melodious name A sacred sound shall be A word our lips delight to frame While memory lives Thou livest to us An off before our eyes For vision-like will thy dear form Thy cherished features rise And that loved hand may icy grow Yet using shall I feel its tender pressure While as now it seems in mind to steal And often shall I think thee near A spirit sent to fill With visions of a brighter world The minds that love thee still And if perchance some tears will flow Believe me, they will be For aching hearts thou livest void Not happy one for thee Nor would I by a wish recall The angel from its sphere Where endless joy and changeless love Atone for suffering skier End of poem This reading is in the public domain We wear the mask By Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org By Mary Patterson We wear the mask that grins in lies It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes This debt we pay to humongile With torn and bleeding hearts we smile And mouths with myriad subtle ties Why should the world be over wise Encounting all our tears and sighs Nay, let them only see us While we wear the mask We smile, but oh great Christ Our cries to thee from tortured souls rise We sing, but oh the clays vile Beneath our feet and long the mile But let the world dream otherwise We wear the mask End of poem This recording is in the public domain