Acquainted with Grief by Helen Hunt-Jackson Red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk Dust no grief well has known her long, so long that not with gift or smile or gliding footstep in the throng she can deceive thee by her guile, so long that with unflinching eyes thou smilest to thy self apart, to watch each flimsy fresh disguise she plans to stab anew thy heart, so long thou barrest up no door to stay the coming of her feet, so long thou answerest no more, lest in her ear thy cry be sweet. Dust know the voice in which she says, no more henceforth our paths divide in loneliest nights in crowded days I am forever by thy side. Then dust thou know perchance the spell the gods laid on her at her birth, the viewless gods who mingle well, strange love and hate of us on earth, weapon and time, the hour, the place, all these are hers to take, to choose, to give us neither rest nor grace, not one heartthrob, to miss or lose, all these are hers, yet stand she, slave, helpless before our one behest, the gods that we be shamed not, gave and locked the secret in our breast. She to the gazing world must bear our crowns of triumph, if we bid, loyal and mute our colors where, sign of her own, forever hid, smile to our smile, song to our song, with songs and smiles, our roses fling, till men turn round in every throng to note such joyous pleasuring, and ask next morn, with eyes that lend, a fervour to the words they say, that is her name, that radiant friend who walked beside you yesterday. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All in Bloom by Horatio Bonar, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. To a spring six thousand years ago the frost wind had not come nor winter with its cloudy gloom, and silent shroud like snow, nor summer with its fever glow. Young life, first life, was budding everywhere, and health breathed through the sweet immaculite air, earth with its virgin soil, unscourged by human avarice and toil, untainted by the rankness of a tomb, was all in bloom. But spring, time's spotless spring, like peace and hope took wing, went upward with its fair array, leaving a faded mantle to this earth, instead of the gay raiment of its birth, it was and is not. Since the gladsome day when it alighted from above on veil and field and grove, earth has not known its love. Dear spring of ours, which with the year comes up in April joy and cheer, child of the past, reserving still some features of an ancient sire, which time and change and ill, which winter's frost and summer's fire, have not been able to destroy. Faint echo of a long lost song, faint relic of an earlier joy, with all thy light and smiles thy soft and sunny wiles, what art thou to that spring, earth's first and freshest, when the magic light of this world's birthday, through its glances, bright over creation's splendor. That old spring, with balm and beauty on the wing, and earth all fresh and blossoming, but spring, earth's primal season, reappears. These long six thousand years of storm are ending, and the doom of this creation is not sealed. The curse shall be repealed. The day of glory stands revealed, departs the gloom, descends the life of a more vernal climb, beyond the blights of time. A thousand veils rejoice, a thousand hills lift up the voice, old ocean smiles again in golden glory clad, and sings a happier strain, the keynote of the holy rain, the tranquil sky is glad, and earth once more from shore to happy shore is all in bloom. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The fire leaped up, swift hot and red, swift hot and red, waiting a prey. The woman came, with swift light tread, and silently knelt down to lay, armfuls of leaves upon the fire, as men lay faggots on a pyre, armfuls of leaves which had been bright like painters' tints six months before. All faded now, a ghastly sight, dusty and colorless, she bore, and knelt and piled them on the fire, as men lay faggots on the pyre. Seeing the crackle and the blaze, idly I smiled, and idly said, Goodbye dead leaves, go dead leaves ways, next year there will be more as red. The woman turned, and from the fire looked up as from a funeral pyre. I saw my idle words had been far crueler than I could know, and made an old wound bleed again. These are not leaves, she whispered low, that I am burning in the fire, but days it is a funeral pyre. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Jean de Maix, by John Augustus Shee, read for LibriVox.org by Sonia. Jean de Maix Bonaparte, habited in a crimson tunic and surrounded by marshals, nobles and dignitaries, from the platform in the open area, distributed the eagles of the different regiments, and viewed the troops alternately, as they filed off in slow time before him. Stories of Waterloo Thou of earth mighty, mightiest, Victor King, prince of the world's potentates, crowned Caesar, unworned Balchazar of the eternal city, whom dangers love as moth the mortal blaze, upon whose breath chameleon millions feed, wonder and dread of nations, hail to thee. Again thou comest, a burning thunderbolt, launched by the hand of fate, to shake our orb. There, gird by princes and by preludes round, preachers of heaven, but vessels of thy will, thou sittest exalted on the imperial throne, clothed in silken gold and ermine purple, and the far-orients priceless pearls and plumes, to swell thy pageant deafening plaudits roar, like the deep voice of the delirious sea, and earth's artillery rivals that of heaven. The birds of Jove are here to wing thy fame, to the remotest shores thy mandate slaves, courteous on courteous brilliantly arrayed, and marshaled pomp of military men, and Francis' gathered chivalry are thine, and now the mighted minister of peace, and he, the apostle of the Vatican, before that blazing altars hallowed splendor, implore the omnipotent for friends and thee. Again the iron throats of many guns lift up the echoing sanction of their thunders, which find an echo in a million hearts. See as thou speakest, how every accent falls like gold into the lap of Everest upon thy people. Thou indeed art skilled to rule the passions of the populace, deep-tought in the dark labyrinths of the mind, thou needst no arreadny to direct thy pleasure through its most mysterious ways. Unrivaled in thine own philosophy, thou laughed at man, and laughing winced his love. Ha! Thus thou kiss with thy polluted lips that sacred book the breath of heaven inspired. As thou not see before thy vision pass the murdered victims of thy red ambition. Pause! Pause, thou glittering mollock! Has thy bark not bounded onward through a sea of blood, wafted by breath of curses? See thy hand, stained with the massacre of Austerlitz, and yet it trembles not. Thy heart is stone, thy soul is blinded, or the thousand ghosts that howl upon the midnight Pyrenees had poured a sheet of blood upon the page. Thy ear is deaf, or thou hadst heard no sound but that which Russia's snows can never hush. The deed is retified, the die is cast, this done, and thou art emperor once more. Who are these chiefs that slowly now approach, in bright habiliments the royal throne, bearing the lightning banners of the land that flashed before the desperate Mamaluk, and broke the stony sleep of Egypt's kings, long sepulchred within their wondrous tombs? Guard, what a spirit-stirring spectacle! See with what ardour springing from his throne, and shooting through the dazzled multitude the electric thrill of his superior mind, the emperor dashes off his purple robe to meet the silken heralds of his conquests. Ambition, he is thy highest elevation. Earth millions cannot lift thy pinion higher. Pride, glory, conquest, pomp, dominion, power, unfallen, unchecked, undimmed, are slaves to thee. And now full fifty thousand hearts that shine, like mirrors faithful to thy proud reflection, as in countless thousands, and the blaze of military splendour, and the crash mingled melodiously of martial music, the wave of plumes and sheen of helmet heads, and spears and swords, and marshaled musket-tree, all past evotedly beneath thine eye, ready again to cloud the mountaintops, and rain a bloody deluge on the earth. Yet what is all this bauble, like the ball that boyhood blows into the reckless air, that breaks its varied colours with a breath? Better and safer heads thou not aspired beyond the sphere where thou alone couldst bless, and like the saviour of the western world, immortal Washington, sceptred and crowned with a free nation's love, a nation's pride, not with those gilded perishable things whose flashes blast thy country's independence, for they are vanity. A way to the call of the racing sea, child of the flowing tide, a hundred chargers of ivory and two of them saddled for you and me, are pawing and stamping the surf to be free. Where the wild sea horses ride, the deep water shall roar as we race from the shore on the back of the flowing tide, O hurry, the moon is away in the sky, child of the flowing tide. With your heels well down, and your heart set high, you're saddled and bridled and so am I. So gather your reins for the foam will fly, where the wild sea horses ride, grip tight with your knees as you gallop the seas on the back of the flowing tide. On the wide lagoon I'll meet you tonight, child of the flowing tide. When the moon swings high, and the stars are light, and the roaring sea chargers are ready to fight. Their mains are all foam, and their coats are all white, where the wild sea horses ride, the deep waters shall roar as we race from the shore on the back of the flowing tide. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Epilogue, Canto 35, from Clarelle, a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land, by Herman Melville, first published in 1876. If Luther's Day Expanded to Darwin's Year, shall that exclude the hope for close to fear? Unmoved by all the claims our times avow, the ancient sphinx still keeps the porch of shade, and comes despair, whom not her calm may cower, and coldly on that adamantine brow scrawls undeterred his bitter-past guinead. But faith, who from the scrawl indignant turns, with blood-warm oozing from her wounded trust, inscribes even on her shards of broken urns the sign of the cross, the spirit above the dust. Ye ape and angel strife and old debate, the harps of heaven and dreary gongs of hell, science the feud can only aggravate, no umpire she betwixt the chimes and knell, the running battle of the star and clod shall run for ever, if there be no God. As we know, unknown in days before, the light is greater, hence the shadow more, and a tantalized and apprehensive man, appealing, wherefore ripen us to pain. Seems there the spokesman of dumb nature's train, but through such strange illusions have they passed, who in life's pilgrimage have baffled striven, even death may prove unreal at the last, and stoics be astounded into heaven. Then keep thy heart, though yet but ill-resigned, Clarell thy heart, the issues there but mind, that like the crocus budding through the snow, that like a swimmer rising from the deep, that like a burning secret which doth go, even from the bosom that would hoard and keep, emerge thou maced from the last, well-meaning sea, and prove that death but ropes life into victory. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Clarell, a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land, by Herman Melville. From part four, Ponto X, a monument. Wizedur Wint, that discourse to end, pointed a thwart, the dale divine. What's yonder object, fountain, shrine, companions, let us thither go, and make inspection. In consent, silent they follow him in calm. It proved an ancient monument, rude stone, but tablets lent to charm. Three tablets on three sides, in one the tender shepherd-mild look down upon the rescued weaning lost, snugged now in arms. In emblem crossed by Pastro Crook, Christ Monogram, wrought with a medieval grace, showed on the square opposed in face. But chiefly did they feel the claim of the main tablet, there a lamb on passive haunches upright-sate, in patience which reproached not fate. The two fine furry forelegs drooping like tassels, while the shearer stooping embraced it with one arm, and all the fleece rolled off in seamless shawl, flecked here and there with hinted blood. It did not shrink. No cry did come. The life of that stone subdued, shearer and shorn alike were dumb. As with a seventy-four, when lull lapses upon the storm, the hull writes for the instant, while a moan of winds succeeds the hull. So here in poise of heart and altered tone with hunger, respite brief though dear it proved, for he. This types assigned to one who sharing not man's mind partook man's frame, whose mystic birth wrecked him upon this reef of earth, inclement and inhuman. Yet through all the trials that beset, he leaned on an upholding arm, for knowing two reserves of balm. But how of them whose souls may claim some link with Christ beyond the name, which share the fate, but never share aid or assurance, and nowhere look for requital? Such there be, in bilings or the world ye see the calvary faces. All averse turned derwent, murmuring, Forbear, such breakers do the heaven asperse. But timely he alert aspired upon the mountain humbly kneeling, though shepherd's twain while morning tide ruled o'er the hills with cold and healing. It was a rock they kneeled upon, convenient for their right avowed, kneeled in their turbaned foreheads bowed, bowed over till they kissed the stone. Each shaggy circled heedful spread for rug, such as in mosques laid. About the ledges favored him, mild fed their sheep, and ringing them, while facing as by second sight toward Mecca they direct the right. Look, and their backs on Bethlehem turned, cried Rolf. The priest, then, who discerned the drift, replied, Yes, for they pray to Allah. Well, and what of that? Christ listens, standing in heaven's gate, benign it listens, nor does stay upon a syllable in creed, vols and consonants indeed. But here, where Margoth now, seeing Jan Shepherd's praying, so, his guy would run from man to man, which is the humble publican. Or do they but prostrate them there, to flout you, Franks, with Islam's prayer? Doubtless some shallow thing he'd say, poor fellow, derwent then. But nay, earnest they are, nor yet they part, if peeled the hour in street or mart, from like observance. If tis so, the refugee let all avow, as openly faith's loyal heart. By Christians too was God confessed, how frankly, in those days they come, no more to misnamed Christendom. Religion then was the good guest, first served, and last, in every gate, what mottos upon wall and pate. She every human venture shared, the ship in manifest declared, that not disclaiming heaven she thrust, her bull sprit into fog and storm, some current silver bore and palm of Christ token of saint or bust, in line devout the pikemen kneeled, to battle by the rite were scaled. Men were not lettered, but had sense beyond the mean intelligence, had nose to read, and but to read, not think. Twas harder to mislead the people then, whose smattering now, does but the more their ignorance show. Nay, them to peril more expose, is as the ring in the bull's nose, whereby a pert boy turns and whines this monster of a million minds. Men owned true masters, kings owned God, their master. We plied the rod upon himself in high estate, not puffed up like a Democrat in office. How was Charlemagne? Look up he did, look up in rain, humbly look up, who might look down. His meekest thing was still his crown. How meek on him, since graven there, among the Apostles 12. Behold, stern scriptural precepts were enrolled, high admonitions meet for kings. The coronation was a prayer, which yet in ceremonial clings. The church was like a bonfire warm, all ranks were gathered round the charm. Durwent who vainly had assayed to impede the speaker, or blockade, snatched at the bridle here. Oh, wait, a word impetuous laureate. This brickabrashes style, upgrown almost, where first it gave the tone, of lauding the quaint ages old. But nay, that satire, I withhold. Grant your side of the shield part true, what then? Why turn the other? View the buckler in reverse. Don't sages denominate those times dark ages? Dark middle ages, times midnight. If night it was no starless one, art still admires what then was done? A strength they showed which is of light. Not more the Fidian marbles proved the graces of the Grecian prime, and indicate what men they were, then the grand ministers in remove do intimate, if not declare a magnanimity which our time would envy. Were it great enough to comprehend? Your counter-buff, however, holds. Yes, frankly, yes, another side there is admit, nor lest the very worst of it reveals not such a shamelessness of evildoer and hypocrite and sordid mercenary sin as these days vaunt and revel in. No use, no use, the priest aside. Patience, it is the maddest tide, and seated him. And hunger then, what's overtaken ye pale men? Shrewd are ye, the main chance ye heed. Has God quite lost his throne indeed that lukewarm now ye grow? Wilt own, counsel ye take with fossil stone?  And for your more established forms, ah, once in York I viewed through storms the minister's majesty of mine, tower's peaks and pinnacle sublime, face iceberg stranded on a scene how alien and an alien time, but now he checked himself and stood. Whench this strange bias of his mood, thought they, leaning to things corroded, but many deemed for eye exploded. But truly, knowing not the man at fault they in conjecture ran. But hunger, as in fitter place set down, being sprung from Romish race, albeit himself had spared to feed on any one elected creed or rite, though much he might recall in annals bearing upon all. And in this land, named of behest, a wandering ishmael from the west, inherited the Latin mind, which late, blown by the adverse wind of harder fortunes that molest, kindled from ember into coal. The priest, as one who keeps him whole, anew turns toward the kneeling twain, your air's slight, or if a stain, will fade. Our lord enjoins good deeds, nor can a chaiseth in the creeds. Assumpting in the voice or man, or in assumption of the turn, which prior theme did so adjourn, pricked hunger, and a look he ran toward derwent, an electric light chastising in its fierce revolt, then settled into that still night of cloud which has discharged the bolt. End of excerpt. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cleopatra by Arthur Simmons, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist.  They haunt me in oblivious hours, and follow me among the flowers. Your eyes hold fast the mystery of other memories than ours. In your immemorial eyes there sits the cruelty of time, in its indifference sublime, empty, and infinitely wise. Your eyes outreach the bounds of time. I gaze into your endless gaze, I lose myself as in a sea. I love myself, content to be a stream that all its nights and days lives but to die into the sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Cuy by Robert Lewis Stevenson, read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in County Antrim, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The friendly Cuy, all red and white, I love with all my heart.  She wanders lowing here and there, and yet she cannot stray. All in the pleasant open air, the pleasant light of day, and blown by all the winds that pass and wet with all the showers, she walks among the meadow grass and eats the meadow flowers. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Crossing the Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp. Sunset and evening star and one clear call from me. And may there be no moaning of the bar when I put out the sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam, when that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home. Twilight and evening bell and after that the dark. And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark. For though from out our borne of time and place the flood may bear me far, I hope to see my pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Dean Swift at Sir Arthur Atchison's in the North of Ireland by Jonathan Swift. Read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. Situated in the North East of the Island of Ireland. The Dean would visit Market Hill. Our invitation was but slight. I said why let him if he will. And so I bade Sir Arthur right. His manners would not let him wait, lest we should think ourselves neglected. And so we see him at our gate three days before he was expected. After a week, a month, a quarter, and day succeeding after day says not a word of his departure, though not a soul would have him stay. I've said enough to make him blush. Me thinks or else the devil's in it, but he cares not for it a rush, nor for my life will take the hint. But you, my dear, may let him know, in civil language, if he stays, how deep and foul the roads may grow, and that he may command the chaise. Or you may say, my wife intends, though I should be exceeding pride, this winter to invite some friends, and, sir, I know you hate a crowd. Or, Mr. Dean, I should, with joy, beg you would hear continue still, but we must go to Agna-Cloy. Or Mr. Murr will take it ill. The house accounts are daily rising, so much has stay doth swell the bills.   Oh, if I could, how I would maul, his tallow face and waist-cut paws, his beetle-brows and eyes of whale, I make him soon give up the cause. Must I be every moment chide, with skinny moona, snipe and lean, oh, that I could but once be rid of this insulting tyrant Dean? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Dogwood Blossoms by George Marion McClellan, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. To dreamy langurs and the violet mist of early spring, the deep sequestered veil gives first her paling blue miamist, where blightly pours the cuckoo's annual tale of summer promises and tender green, of a new life and beauty yet unseen. The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, where dying winds of march their branches swing, while upward from the dreamy sunny south, a hand invisible leads on the spring. His rounds from bloom to bloom, the bee begins with flying song, and cows slip wine, he sups, where to the warm and passing southern winds, his alias gently swing their yellow cups. Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, the fields will spread with every brilliant hue. But higher all the early floral train, where softness all the arching sky resumes, the dogwood dancing to the wind's refrain, in stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Faithful Bird by William Cooper, read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Faithful Bird. The greenhouse is my summer seed. My shrubs, displaced from that retreat, enjoyed the open air. Two goldfinches, whose brightly song had been their mutual solace long, lived happy prisoners there. They sang as blithe as finches sing, that flutter loose on golden wing, and frolic where they list. Strangers to liberty, this true, but that delight they never knew, and therefore never missed. But nature works in every breast, with forth not easily suppressed, and Dick felt some desires, that after many an effort vain, instructed him at length to gain, a pass between his wires. The open windows seemed to invite the freemen to a farewell flight, but Tom was still confined, and Dick, although his way was clear, was much too generous and sincere to leave his friend behind. So settling on his cage, by play and chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say, you must not live alone, nor would he quit that chosen stand, till I, with slow and cautious hand, returned him to his own. O ye who never taste the joys of friendship, satisfied with noise, fendango, ball and rout, blush, when I tell you how a bird, a prison with a friend preferred, to liberty without. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The first lie by Helen Leah Reed, read for LibriVox.org by Kudrna. I'm sure I did not break this cup. It just fell down. I know it did, where I was only climbing up. Why do they keep the cakebox head? I wanted such a little bit, and then I heard that creaking door. I can't tell what it was I hit, nor how that cup got on the floor. The shelf it stood on was too high, that cup my mother loved the most. Oh dear, I never told a lie. And mother whispered, do not boast. The day I said I never could, but there stood broken cup, and then I promised that I never would. So I'll not tell a lie again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Flameheart by Claude McKay, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. So much have I forgotten in 10 years. So much in 10 brief years. I have forgot what time the purple apples come to juice, and what month brings the shy forget-me-not. Forgotten is the special startling season of some beloved trees flowering and fruiting. What time of year the ground doves brown the fields and fill the noon day with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember Poinsettia's red blood red and warm December. I still recall the honey fever grass, but I cannot bring back to mind just when we rooted them out of the ping-wing path to stop the mad bees and the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month the languid-painted ladies used to dapple the yellow birow, amazing from the main, sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember the Poinsettia's red blood red and warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year we cheated school to have our fling at tops. What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy, feasting upon blackberries in the cops. Oh, some I know. I have embalmed the days, even the sacred moments when we played all innocent of passion, uncorrupt at noon and evening in the flame heart's shade. We were so happy, happy. I remember beneath the Poinsettia's red and warm December. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. God give me strength, by anonymous, read for LibraVox.org. Each day I pray, God give me strength anew to do the task I do not wish to do, to yield obedience not asking why, to love and own the truth and scorn the lie, to look a cold world bravely in the face, to cheer for those that pass me in the race, to bear my burdens gaily, unafraid, to lend a hand to those that need my aid, to measure what I am by what I give. God give me strength that I may rightly live. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Golden Journey to Samarkand, by James L. Roy Flecker, read for LibraVox.org by Phil Schimpf. Prologue, we who with songs begali your pilgrimage and swear that beauty lives, though lilies die, we poets of the proud old lineage, who sing to your hearts, we know not why. What shall we tell you? Tales, marvelous tales of ships and stars and aisles where good men rest, where nevermore the rose of sunset pales and winds and shadows fall toward the west, and there the world's first huge white-bearded kings in dim-glades sleeping murmur in their sleep, and closer round their breasts the ivy clings, cutting its pathway slow and red and deep. Two, and how beguile you? Death has no repose warmer and deeper than the orient sand, which hides the beauty and bright faith of those who made the Golden Journey to Samarkand, and now they wait and whiten peaceably, those conquerors, those poets, those so fair, they know time comes, not only you and I, but the whole world shall whiten here or there. When those long caravans that cross the plain with dauntless feet and sound of silver bells put forth no more for glory or for gain, take no more solace from the palm-girt wells, when the great markets by the sea shut fast, all that calm Sunday that goes on and on, when even lovers find their peace at last, and earth is but a star that once had shown. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Good Hours from North of Boston by Robert Frost. I had, for my winter evening walk, no one at all with whom to talk. But I had the cottages in a row, up to their shining eyes in snow. And I thought I had the folk within. I heard the sound of a violin. I had a glimpse through curtain laces of youthful forms and youthful faces. I had such company outward bound. I went until there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window, but that was black. Over the snow my creaking feet disturbed the slumbering village street, like profanation by your leave, at ten o'clock of a winter's eve. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Growing Old by Matthew Arnold, read for LibriVox.org by Eva Davis. What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, the luster of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her reef? Yes, but not this alone. Is it to feel our strength, not our bloom only, but our strength decay? Is it to feel each limb grow stiffer, every functionless exact, each nerve more loosely strung? Yes, this and more, but not, ah, does not what in youth we dreamed to be. Does not to have our life mellowed and softened as with sunset glow, a golden days decline? Tis not to see the world as from height, with wrapped prophetic eyes and heart profoundly stirred, and weep and feel the fullness of the past, the years that are no more. It is to spend long days and not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, emured, in the hot prison of the present, month to month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, and feel but half and feebly what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart festers the dull remembrance of a change, but no emotion, none. It is, last stage of all, when we are frozen up within and quite the phantom of ourselves, to hear the world applaud the hollow ghost, which blamed the living man. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Heil Mar speaks to the raven by James L. Roy Flecker, read for livervox.org by Phil Shamp. Night on the blood-stained snow, the wind is chill, and there a thousand tombless warriors lie, grasping their swords, wild featured, all are still. Above them the black ravens wheel and cry. A brilliant moon sends her cold light abroad. Heil Mar arises from the reddened slain, heavily leaning on his broken sword and bleeding from his side the battle rain. Heil to you all, is there one breath still drawn among those fierce and fearless lads who played so merrily and sang as sweet in the dawn as thrushes singing in the bramble shade? They have no word to say. My helm's unbound, my breastplate by the axe unriveted. Blood's on my eyes. I hear a spreading sound, like waves or wolves that clamor in my head. Eater of men, old raven, come this way, and with thine iron bill open my breast. Tomorrow find us where we lie today and bear my heart to her that I love best. Through Uppsala, where drink the yarls and sing and clash their golden balls in company. Bird of the Moor, carry on tireless wing to Ilmer's daughter, there the heart of me.  I pedestal'd on some rook-haunted tower. She has two ear-rings, silver and vermal, and eyes like stars that shine in the sunset hour. Tell her my love, thou dark bird ominous, give her my heart. No bloodless heart and vile, but red compact and strong, old raven. Thus shalt Ilmer's daughter greet thee with a smile. Now let my life from 20 deep wounds flow and wolves may drink the blood. My time is done, young, brave, and spotless. I rejoice to go and sit where all the gods are in the sun. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Him to Satan by Josue Carducci, translated in English by Frank Sewell, read for LibriVox.org by Libre on the 27th of May, 2020. To thee my verses unbridled and daring shall mount to Satan king of the banquet. Away with thy sprinkling, o priest, and thy droning, for never shall Satan, o priest, stand behind thee. See how the rust is gnawing the mystical sword of St. Michael. And how the faithful, twin-plucked archangel, falls into emptiness, frozen the thunder in hand of Jehovah. Like two pale meteors, o planets exhausted out of the firmament rain down the angels. Here in the matter which never sleeps, king of phenomena, king of all forms, thou Satan-leavers. Thine is the empire, felt in the dark eyes, tremulous flushing, whether their languishing glances resist, or glittering and tearful they call and invite. How shine the clusters with happy blood, so that the furious joy may not perish, so that the languishing love be restored, and sorrow be banished, and love be increased. Thy breath, o Satan, my verses inspires, when from my bosom the gods I defy, of kings pontifical, of kings inhuman. Thine is the lightning that sets minds to shaken, for thee arima ne adoni sastarte, for thee live the marbles, the pictures, the parchment, when the fair Venus, Sanadio Mene, bless the Ionian heaven serene. For thee were roaring the forests of Lebanon, of the fair Cyprus, and love are reborn, for thee rose the carous, for thee raved the dances, for thee the pure shining loves of the virgins, under the sweet-ordered palms of Idume, wear breaking white foam, the Cyprian waves. What if the barbarous Nazarin fury, fed by the paste rites of secret fistins, light-sacred torches to burn down the temples, scattering abroad the scrolls idoglyphic, in the fine refuse the humble-roofed plebs, who have not forgotten the gods of the household? Then scum's the power, fervid and loving, that feeling the quick-throbbing bosom of woman, turns to the sucker of nature in feebles, a sorcerous pallid with endless-care laden. Thou to the trans-holden eye of the alchemist, thou to the view of the bigoted mago, show us the lightning-flash of the new time, shining behind the dark bars of the cloister, seek in to fly from thee, here in the world life, hides in the gloomy monk-intiban deserts, oh, so that wanderers far from the straight way, Satan is merciful, see Eloisa, in vain you wear yourself thin in rough gown, I still murmur the verses of Morrow and Flakus, the meat that the vedic, salmin and wailing, and the elfic figures close to thy side, Rosie, a meat that the cowls of the friars, enters Lycorida, enters Glicera, then other images of baysmorphia, come to dwell with thee in thy secret cell, low from the pages of Levy, the tribunes all ardent, the consuls, their crowds to multius awake, and the fantastic pride of Italian, drives thee, oh, monk, up to the capital, and you whom the flaming pyre never melted, conjuring voices, weakly, and hoose, sent to the broad breeze the cry of the watchmen, the age renews itself, full is the time, all ready tremble, the miters and crowns, forth from the cloister moves the rebellion, under his stole see fighting and preaching, brada girolamo savunarola, off goes the tunic of Martin Luther, off go the fetters that bound human thought, it flashes and lightens girdle with flame, matter exalt thyself, satanless one, if bad and terrible monster unchained, courses the oceans, courses the earth, fleshing and smoking like the volcanoes, climbs over mountains, ravages plains, skims the abysses, then he's lost in unknown covens and waste profound, till low unconquered from shore to shore, like to the whirlwind descends forth his cry, like to the whirlwind spreading its wings, he passes, oh people, satan the great, hail to this satan, hail the rebellion, hail of the reason the great vindicator, sacred to thee shall rise in sense and vows, thou as the god of the priests disenthroned. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. I'm Nobody, by Emily Dickinson. Read for LibreVox.org by Grace Buchanan. I'm Nobody, who are you? Are you Nobody too? Then there's a pair of us.  How dreary to be somebody, how public like a frog, to tell your name the live long day to an admiring bog. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. In the Dark, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Read for LibreVox.org by Bruce Gachok. As one who journeys on a stormy night through mountain passes, which he does not know, shields like his life from savage gusts that blow, the swaying flame of his frail torches light. So each of us through life's long groping fight clings fast to one dear faith, one love whose glow makes darkness noonday to our trusting sight and joys of perils into which we go. God help us when this precious shining mark, the raging storms of deep distrust assail with icy poisoned breath and deadly aim till we with hearts that shrink and cower and quail in terror, which no measure has nor name, stand trembling, helpless, palsied in the dark. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. In Time of the Breaking of Nations, by Thomas Hardy. Read for LibreVox.org by Newgate Novelist. In Time of the Breaking of Nations, Jeremiah chapter 51 verse 20. Only a man harrowing clods in a slow silent walk with an old horse that stumbles and nods, or for sleep as they stalk, only thin smoke without flame from the heaps of couch grass. Yet this will go onward the same, though dynasties pass. Yonder are made in her white, come whispering by. War's annals will cloud in tonight, ere their story die. 1915 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Kraken by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Read for LibreVox.org by Daniel Davison. Below the thunders of the upper deep, far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, his ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep, the Kraken sleepeth, faint as sunlight's flee about his shadowy sides. Above him swell, huge sponges, a millennial growth and height, and far away into the sickly light from many a wondrous grot and secret cell, unnumbered and enormous polypy, winner with giant fins, the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie, battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, unto the latter fire shall heat the deep. Then once by man and angels to be seen, in roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The last word by unknown in the epitome, the yearbook of Hagerstown High School, class of 1922. Read for LibreVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland, Washington. It is done, this is the end. Maybe it might have been better. The book is done, we offer you this. It is not what we dreamed of. It is not all we planned it should be, we have tried but fate said our trying was useless. We have labored with an experience, we have dreamed in terms of things that we knew little of. This is the end, our task is done. Deal kindly with it, knowing we tried. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. L'Evée C'est L'Evée by Jesse Fawcett. Read for LibreVox.org by Thomas Peter. On summer afternoons I sit, quiescent by you in the park, and idly watch the sun beams gild and tint the ash trees bark. Or else I watch the squirrels frisk and chaffer in the grassy lane, and all the while I mark your voice, breaking with love and pain. I know a woman who would give her chance of heaven to take my place, to see the love light in your eyes, the love glow on your face. And there's a man whose lightest word can set my chilly blood of fire, fulfilment of his least behest defines my life's desire. But he will none of me, nor I of you, nor you of her. To said the world is full of jests like these, I wish that I were dead. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée C'est L'Evée. He loves to tinker with tiny tools, the tiny clink of glass, the taste of rare homemade tidbits, the feel of tiny gobbles in his hand, all brought him strangely closer to himself. In his small still dreams, the cat, the dog, even his wife was small. There were tiny belts, tiny screws, tiny nails, hammers, wires, pliers, a little world for Liliputians. His dream was always short and small. By trade he was a blacksmith, and now he is our milkman. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Love the Lightgiver by Michelangelo Buonarrati, translated by J.A. Simmons. Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. VEGIO KOBEI VOSTRIOLCI With your fair eyes a charming light I see, for which my own blind eyes would appear in vain. Stayed by your feet the burden I sustain, which my lame feet find all too strong for me. Wingless upon your opinions forth I fly, heavenward your spirit stireth me to strain. Even as you will I blush and blanch again. Freeze in the sun, burn beneath the frosty sky. Your will includes and is the Lord of mine. Life to my thoughts within your heart is given. My words begin to breathe upon your breath. Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine alone, for low our eyes see not in heaven, save with the living sun illumineth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. MY DEAD DREAM BY CERUGINI NIDU Red for LibriVox by Garfield De Souza Have you found me at last, oh my dream? Seven years ago you died and I buried you deep under forests of snow. Why have you come hither? Who bade you awake from your sleep and tracked me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep? Would you tear from my lentils the sacred green garlands of leaves? Would you scare the white nested wild pigeons of joy from my eaves?  Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast?  Who bade you arise from your darkness? I bid you dip out, profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME by Oliver Wendell Holmes Red for LibriVox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez There is no time like the old time when you and I were young, when the buds of April blossomed and the birds of springtime sung. The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, but oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first. There is no place like the old place where you and I were born, where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn from the milk-white breast that warmed us from the clinging arms that bore, where the dear eyes glistened auras that will look on us no more.  Fame is the scentless sunflower with gaudy crown of gold, but friendship is the breathing rose with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that recorded in our pride, though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side. There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, and we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn. There are no times like the old times they shall never be forgot. There is no place like the old place. Keep green, the dear old spot. There are no friends like our old friends may have and prolong their lives. There are no loves like our old loves. God bless our loving wives. Oh captain, my captain, our fearful trip is done. The ship has weathered every rack. The prize we sought is won. The port is near. The bells I hear. The people all exulting, while follow eyes, the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. But oh heart, heart, heart, oh the bleeding drops of red, whereon the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. Oh captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells.   My captain does not answer. His lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm. He has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound. It's voyage closed and done. For a fearful trip the victory ship comes in with object one. Exult, oh shores and ring, oh bells. But I, with mournful tread, walk the deck my captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh death will find me long before I tire, by Rupert Brooke, read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. Oh death will find me long before I tire of watching you, and swing me suddenly into the shade and loneliness and mire of the last land. There, waiting patiently, one day I'll think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing. See a slow light across the Stygian tide, and hear the dead about me stir, unknowing, and tremble, and I shall know that you have died. And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, pass light as ever through the lightless host. Quietly ponder, start, and sway and gleam, most individual and bewildering ghost, and turn and toss your brown delightful head amusedly among the ancient dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Origin of the Kamini Flower by Jatindra Mohantogor, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. A maiden fair once loved a youth to win his smile she ever sighed, but false she found his plighted truth have broken heart the maiden died. The love God's breast with pity warmed, and now for once himself he blamed, into a flower the maid transformed, and sweet Kamini it was named. And evermore alone at night it weeps full many a dewy tear, but fades and falls her dawn of light lest faithless man approach it near. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oxford Meadows by William Force Stand, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Willow and Poplar rooted in watery meadow of luxury, by the slow stream round you delightedly spring, and her king cups summer and meadow sweet wander and dream. Wind in a radiant silvery quivering skims on the wave where greenly it flows, sparkling of brilliance Willow and Poplar twinkle and sparkle when the wind blows. Clouds in the treetops swan white and snow bright float through the greenery sailing away. Fly heart with cloud-flight, shine heart with sunlight, dream with the slow stream, blossom in May. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Osamandias by Percy Bischelli, read for LibriVox.org by Daniel Davison. I met a traveller from an antique land, who said two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them on the sand have sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor well those passions read, which yet survives stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them in the heart that fed, and on the pedestal these words appear. My name is Osamandias, king of kings. Look on my works ye mighty with despair. Nothing beside remains round the decay of the colossal wreck boundless and bare. The lone and level sands stretch far away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Past and Future by Sirogeny Nidu, read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. The new hath come, and now the old retires, and so the past becomes a mountain cell, where lone, apart, old, hermit memories dwell. In consecrated calm, forgotten yet, of the keen heart that hastens to forget, old longings in fulfilling new desires. And now the soul stands in a vague, intense expectancy, and anguish of suspense. On the dim chamber threshold, low, he sees like a strange, faded bride, as yet unknown, his timid future shrinking there alone, beneath her marriage veil of mysteries. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Plagues at the Play by Harry Graham. Read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner, from Balli Clare, in Countyampton, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Well-dressed, and well-fed, and well-meaning, God knows, they arrive when the play is half-ended. As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows, they be ruffle, your hair, and they tread on your toes. Quite unconscious of having offended, then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit, and uncloak in a leisurely fashion, while they act as a blind to the people behind, who grow perfectly purple with passion, till at last, by the time they have seated and settled, their neighbours all round them are thoroughly knettled. A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy, this inaudible accents they mention, and whenever some distant attendant they spy, they hallow, or give vent to remarks such as high, in attempts to attract her attention. After this, which is worse, they will lively converse and enjoy a good gossip together, on the clothes they have bought, and the colds they have caught, on the state of the crops and the weather, till they leave, in the midst of some tense situation, that spoiled by their flow of inane conversation. O managers, pray, I am asking too much, if I beg that these persons of leisure be kept in a sound proth and separate hutch, if their nightly theatrical manners are such as to spoil other playgoers' pleasure. For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied with a cage for such talkative parrots, or a series of stalls of the kind that have walls and some hay and a couple of carrots, would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing, and deal with an evil in need of redressing. Many a year well he knew his mistress's steer.  One more gasp, it is the end. Dead and mute, our tiny friend. Songster thou of many a year, now thy mistress brings thee here, says it fits that I rehearse tribute due to thee, a verse, mead for daily song of your, silent now for evermore. Poor Matthias, wouldst thou have more than pity, claims to stave. Friends more nearest than a bird, we dismissed without a word. Rover with a good brown head, great Tosa, they are dead. Dead and neither prose nor rhyme tells the praises of their prime. Thou didst know them old and gray, know them in their sad decay. Thou hast seen a Tosa sage sit for hours beside thy cage. Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, flutter, chirp, she never stirred. What were now these toys to her? Down she sank amid her fur, idly with the soul resigned, and their deemidst cats were kind, cruel, but composed and bland, dumb, inscrutable, and grand. So Tiberius might have sat, had Tiberius been a cat. Rover died, a Tosa too. Less than they to us are you. Newer human were their powers, closer knit their life with ours. Hands had stroked them, which are cold now for years in churchyard mould. Comrades of our past were they, of that unreturning day. Changed and aging, they and we dwelt, it seemed, in sympathy. Our way from their presence broke somewhat which remembrance woke of the loved, the lost, the young. Yet they died, and died unsung. Geist came next, our little friend. Geist had versed to mourn his end. Yes, but that enforcement strong, which compelled for Geist a song.  Poor Matthias, were they thine? Max and Kaiser, we today, greet upon the lawn at play. Max adoxened without blot. Kaiser should be, but is not. Max was shining yellow coat, prinking ears and due lap throat. Kaiser, with his collie face, penitent for want of race, which may be the first to die, vain to augur, they or I. But as age comes on, I know, poet's fire gets faint and low. If so be, that travel they, first the inevitable way. Much I doubt if they shall have, dirge from me, to crown their grave.  Something haunts my conscience brings sad, compunctious visitings. Other favorites dwelling here, open live to us and near. Well, we knew when they were glad, plain we saw if they were sad.  Sympathy could feel and show, both in wheel of theirs and woe. Birds, companions more unknown, live beside us, but alone. Finding not, do all they can, passage from their souls to man. Kindness, we bestow and praise, laud their plumage, greet their lays. Still, beneath their feathered breast, stirs a history unexpressed. Wishes there, and feeling strong, incommunicably throng. What they want, we cannot guess. Fail to track their deep distress. Dole, look on, when death is nigh. Note no change, and let them die. Poor Matthias, couldst thou speak? What a tale of thy last week.  But how mocking, how incongruous now, cake we offered, sugar, seed, never doubtful of thy need. Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye, praised thy golden livery. Gravely, thou the wild, poor dear, satst upon thy perch to hear, fixing with a mute regard, us, thy human keepers, hard. Trumbling, with our chatter vain, ebb of life and mortal pain, us, unable to divine our companion's dying sign, or o'er past the severing sea, set betwixt ourselves and thee, till the sand, thy feathers smirk, fallen, dying off thy perch. Was it, as the Grecian sings, birds were born the first of things, before the sun, before the wind, before the gods, before mankind, airy, anti-mundane throng, witness their unworldly song, proof they give two primal powers of oppressions more than ours. Teach us, while they come and go, when to sail, and when to sow, cuckoo calling from the hill, swallow skimming by the mill, swallow trooping in the sedge, starling swirling from the hedge, mark the seasons, map our year, as they show and disappear. But with all this travail sage, brought from that anterior age, goes an unreversed decree, whereby strange are they, and we, making want of theirs and plan, indiscernible by man. No, away with tales like these, stolen from Aristophanes, does it, if we miss your mind, prove us so remote in kind? Birds, we but repeat on you, what amongst ourselves we do, somewhat more or somewhat less, to the same unskillfulness, what you feel escapes our ken, know we more our fellow men? Human suffering at our side, ah, like yours, is undescribed.   Telling how, one stormy day, stress of gale and showers of spray, drove my daughter small and me, inland from the rocks and sea. Driven in shore, we follow down ancient streets of Hastingstown, slowly thread them, when behold, French canary merchant old, shepherding his flock of gold, in a low dim-lighted pen, scanned of traps and fishermen. There a bird, high-colored, fat, proud of port, though something squat, purse he played out Philistine, dazzled Nelly's youthful eye. But far in, obscure, there stirred on his perch a sprightlier bird, courteous-eyed, erect and slim, and I whispered, fix on him. Home we brought him, young and fair, songs to trill in surry air. Here Mathias sang his fill, saw the cedars of Paines Hill. Here he poured his little soul, heard the murmur of the mole. Eight in number now the years, he hath pleased our eyes and ears. Other favorites he has known go, and now himself is gone. Fairly well, companion dear, fair for ever well, nor fear tiny, though thou art, to stray down the uncompanioned way. We without thee, little friend, many years have not spent. What are left will hardly be, better than we spent with thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. by Scarbo. A trick that every one abhors in little girls is slamming doors. A wealthy banker's little daughter, who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater, by name Rebecca Offendort, was given to this furious sport. She would deliberately go and slam the door like billy-o to make her uncle Jacob start. She was not really bad at heart, but only rather rude and wild. She was an aggravating child. It happened that a marble bust of Abraham was standing just above the door. This little lamb had carefully prepared to slam, and down it came. It knocked her flat. It laid her out. She looked like that. Her funeral sermon, which was long and followed by a sacred song, mentioned her virtues it is true, but dwelt upon her vices too, and showed to the deadful end of one who goes and slams the door for fun. The children who were brought to hear, the awful tale from afar and near, were much impressed, and inly swore they never more would slam the door, as often they had done before. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Runnable Stag by John Davidson Read for LibriVox.org by Kevin Brown A Runnable Stag When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom, and apples began to be golden skinned, we harbored a stag in the priory coom, and we feathered his trail upwind, upwind. We feathered his trail upwind. A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, a runnable stag, a kingly crop, brow, bay, and tray, and three on top, a stag, a runnable stag. Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, and four words we heard the harborer shout, but was only a brocket that broke a gap in the beach and underwood, driven out, from the underwood antlered out. By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, the runnable stag, whose lordly mind was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined, he stood a runnable stag. So we tufted the covert till afternoon with Tinkerman's pup and Bell of the North, and hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune before we tufted the right stag forth, before we tufted him forth. The stag of warrant the wily stag, the runnable stag with his kingly crop, brow, bay, and tray, and three on top, the royal and runnable stag. It was Bell of the North and Tinkerman's pup that stuck to the scent till the cops was drawn, tally-ho, tally-ho, and the hunt was up, the tufters whipped and the pack laid on, the resolute pack laid on, and the stag of warrant away at last, the runnable stag, the same, the same, his hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, a stag, a runnable stag. Let your gelding be, if you check or chide, he stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt, for three hundred gentlemen able to ride on hunters accustomed to bear the brunt, accustomed to bear the brunt, are after the runnable stag, the stag, the runnable stag with his kingly crop, brow, bay, and tray, and three on top, the right, the runnable stag. By perilous paths in Coom and Dell, the heather, the rocks, and the riverbed, the pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, and a runnable stag goes right ahead, the quarry went right ahead, ahead, ahead, and fast, and far, his antlered crest, his cloven hoof, brow, bay, and tray, and three aloof, the stag, the runnable stag. For a matter of twenty miles and more, by the densest hedge and the highest wall, through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore of harbourer, huntsman, hounds, and all, of harbourer, hounds, and all, the stag of warrant, the wily stag, for twenty miles, and five, and five, he ran, and he never was caught alive, this stag, this runnable stag. When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom, in the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep, he heard in the distance the rollers boom, and he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep, in a wonderful vision of sleep, a stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, a runnable stag in a jeweled bed, under the sheltering ocean dead, a stag, a runnable stag.  For five miles more, the stag, the stag, for twenty miles, and five, and five, not to be caught now dead or alive, the stag, the runnable stag. Three hundred gentlemen able to ride, three hundred horses as gallant and free, beheld him escape on the evening tide, far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, till he sank in the depths of the sea, the stag, the buoyant stag, the stag that slept at last in a jeweled bed, under the sheltering ocean spread, the stag, the runnable stag. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Sentimental Sketch by Alonso Luis, read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. A Sentimental Sketch She was a blooming maiden, and she was passing fair. I saw when sorrow laden she saw the home from care, for sickness had come over her and disappointment too, and every path before her was difficult and new. In days of youthful gladness, when bosoms are sincere, a darkening shade of sadness spread over her brow so clear, and that pure smile, which lighted up her features smiling glow, was dashed as by some bitter cup of darkness and of woe. They say that in a luckless hour a wandering stranger came, who taught that sin's transmissive power could light the deathless flame. And from that hour she turned aside to sad and lonely ways, and gave to sorrow's reckless tide the beauty of her days. The sun dispensed Serena's light, but not for her itch on. The village grew each day more bright, but she was sad and lone. And youth, who loved to wander with her in childhood's glow, now see her pine and ponder amid the brightest show. She looks back on the rosy hours of childhood and of joy, when every scene was flushed with flowers and bliss without a lull. Those harmless pleasures in her fear are tinged with darkest sin, and every step appears more drear than all the past has been. Oh, can it be that nature delights to mar the bliss and dash her fairest creature with misery like this? Is there no path to heaven but through a sea of tears no endless pleasures given, unbought by darkest fears? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. He in winter trenches, cowed and glum, with crumbs and lice and lack of rum, he put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A smile may illumine the lip of woe and a tear dim the merriest eye, and sorrow may banish the smiles as they glow, but the tears' love will fatefully dry. And there shines not an eye, how air mirthful it beam, for which fate has no teardrop distilled, and there sorrow's no heart, how air mournful it seem, whose gladness forever is chilled. As the rainbow its iris-hued glory displays, when storm clouds are fleeing the sky, off the brightest of smiles to the laughing lip strays, when tears have just shaded the eye. Then mourn not the sadness or shadows my brow, by joy but forsaken of while, but remember each tear, though so bitter its flow, is the herald to usher a smile. End of poem. This reading is in the public domain. Oh listen, for the veil profound is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant more welcome notes to very bands of travellers in some shady haunt. Among the raven sands a voice so thrilling, never was heard in springtime from the cuckoo bird, breaking the silence of the seas, among the farthest heparides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago, or is it some more humble lay familiar matter of today? Some natural sorrow, loss of pain that has been and maybe again? What air the theme the maiden sang as if her song could have no ending? I saw her singing at her work and o'er the sickle bending. I listened motionless and still, and as I mounted up the hill, the music in my heart I bow, long after it was heard no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Read for LibriVox.org by Daniel Davison. Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, but has trouble enough of its own. Sing and the hills will answer, sigh it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, but shrink from voicing care. Rejoice and men will seek you. Grieve and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, but they do not need your woe. Be glad and your friends are many. Be sad and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, but alone you must drink life's gall. Feast and your halls are crowded. Fast and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, but no man can help you die. For there is room in the halls of pleasure, for large and lordly train. But one by one we must all file on to the narrow aisles of pain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Stars by Sara Teesdale Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp Alone in the night on a dark hill with pines around me, spicy and still, and a heaven full of stars over my head, white and topaz and misty red. Myriads with beating hearts of fire that eons cannot vex or tire. Up the dome of heaven like a great hill I watch them marching stately and still, and I know that I am honored to be witness of so much majesty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thoughts by Myra Viola Wilds Read for LibriVox.org by Brian Dahlvig What kind of thoughts now do you carry in your travels day by day? Are they bright and lofty visions, or neglected, gone astray? Matters not how great and fancy, or what deeds of skill we've wrought. Man, though high may be his station, is no better than his thoughts. Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly, let each one and honor be. Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly, then in love, set each one free. End of poem. This poem is in the public domain. The Three Brigands From Studies in Folk Song and Popular Poetry by Alfred M. Wiggins Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grossman The Three Brigands by Alfred M. Wiggins Always ranging night and day the Three Brigands bold are seeking their prey in the forest old. In the forest old they meet a Greek, and the Greek they slay, from his full wagon bear booty away. Always ranging on the way the Three Brigands bold reach a roadside tavern's sheltering fold.  My daughter shall serve, and I too am fine. They eat and drink the Three Brigands bold, but the youngest thief sits pallid and cold. To himself, he says, my cradle should a coffin have made, my infant linen for a shroud been laid. And my swaddling cord, my body swayed. The End of The Three Brigands by Alfred M. Wiggins Five summers with the length of five long winters. And again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs, with a soft inland murmur. Once again do I behold these steep and lufty clips, that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky. The days come when I again repose here under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, which at the season, with their unripe fruits, are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves in its groves and cups. Once again I see these hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines of sportive wood run wild. These pastoral farms green to the very door, and wreaths of smoke sent up in silence from among the trees. With some uncertain notice, as might seem of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, or of some hermit's cave, whereby his fire, the hermit sits alone. These beauty's forms, through a long absence, have not been to me, as is a landscape to a blind man's eye. But oft, in lonely rooms, amid the din of towns and cities, I have owed to them in hours of weariness, sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart. The passing even into my pure mind, with tranquil restoration, feelings too of unremembered pleasure, such perhaps as have no slight or trivial influence on that best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Nor less I trust to them I may have owed another gift, of aspic more sublime, that blessed mode, in which the burden of the mystery, in which the heavy and the wary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened. That serene and blessed mode, in which the affections gently lead us on, until the breath of this corporeal frame, and even the motion of our human blood almost suspended, we are laid asleep in body, and become a living soul. While with an eye made quiet by the power of harmony and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. If this be but a vain belief, yet, oh, how oft, in darkness, and amid the many shapes of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir, unprofitable, and the fever of the world, have hung upon the beatings of my heart, how oft and spirit have I turned to be, oh, Sylvan, why, thou wanderer through the woods, how often has my spirit turned to be. And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, with many recognitions dim and faint, and somewhat of a sad perplexity, the picture of the mind revives again. While here I stand, not only with a sense of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts that in this moment there is life and food for future years. And so I dare to hope, though changed, no doubt from what I was when first I came among these hills, when like a row I bound over the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers and the lonely streams, wherever nature led, more like a man flying from something that he dreads than one who saw the thing he loved. For nature, then, the coarser pleasures of my broach days and their glad animal movements all gunned by, to me was all in all. I cannot paint what then I was. The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion. The tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and the gloomy wood, their colors and their forms were then to me an appetite, a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoder charm, by thoughts supplied nor any interest unborrowed from the eye. That time has passed, and all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy ratchers, not with his faint eye nor more nor murmur, other gifts have followed. For such loss, I would believe abundant recompense. For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but here and oftentimes the still sad music of humanity, nor harsh, nor grating, fell of ample power to chastenance of doom. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns and the round ocean and the living air and the blue sky and in the mind of man, a motion and a spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, erodes through all things. Therefore, am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods and mountains, and of all that we behold from this green earth, of all the mighty world of eye and ear, both what they have created and what perceive we please to recognize the nature and the language of the sense, the anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart and soul, of all my moral being? Nor per chance, if I were not thus taught, should I the more suffer my genial spirits to decay, for thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river, thou my dearest friend, my dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart and read my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little wild may I behold in thee what I was once, my dear, dear sister, and this prayer I make, knowing that nature never did betray the heart that loved her, tis a privilege through all the years of this our life to lead from joy to joy, for she can so inform the mind that is within us, so impressed with quietness and beauty, and so feed with lucky thoughts, and neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life shall air prevail against us, or disturb our cheerful faith that all which we behold is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon shine on thee and thy solitary walk, and let the misty mountain winds be free to blow against thee, and in after years when these wild ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure, when thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, thy memory be as a thrilling place for all sweet sounds and harmonies. Oh, then, if solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts of tender joy wilt thou remember me, and these my exhortations. Nor, perchance, if I should be where I no more can hear thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams of past existence, wilt thou then forget that on the banks of this delightful stream we stood together, and that I, so longed a worshipper of nature, hither came unwaryed in that service, rather safe with warmer love, with far deeper zeal of holier love, nor wilt thou then forget that after many wanderings, many years of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs in this green pastoral landscape were to me more dear both for themselves and for thy sake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tucilia, by Ben Johnson. Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss, but in the cup, and I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine, but might I, if Joe's necked herself, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honoring thee, as giving it a hope that there it could not withered be, but thou thereon didst only breathe and sensed it back to me, since when it grows and smells I swear not of itself, but thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. War Song of the Saracens, by James L. Roy Flecker. Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schimpf. We are they who come faster than fate. We are they who ride early or late. We storm at your ivory gate, pale kings of the sunset. Beware! Not on silk, nor in salmon we lie. Not in curtained solemnity die. Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer. But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp, with the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair. From the lands where the elephants are, to the forts of Meru and Balgar, our steel we have brought, and our star to shine, on the ruins of Rome. We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go there again. We have stood on the shore of the plain, where the waters of destiny boom. A martyred destruction we made at Gelula, where men were afraid, for death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom. And the spear was a desert physician, who cured not a few of ambition, and draved not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong. And the shield was a grief to the fool, and as bright as a desolate pool, and as straight as the rock of Stambul, when their cavalry thundered along. For the coward was drowned with the brave, when our battle sheared up like a wave, and the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.


So my daughter's gonna go away college and we're starting to have this conversation about you know when you're away. Mommy's not there anymore What do I tell her when she's in another state about looking for a doctor? Should I be involved in the process or should I just let her handle it? Well, one of the things she'll ask is her friends, which is what we do. Yes You have a doctor you like and so they've been screened. There's also ways online We can look at credentials of the doctor and then meet the doctor and see if you like the doctor or the Nurse practitioner or whomever you've chosen with your daughter going to school a lot of times They will have a clinic and the clinic has several different health care providers Oh, but that's so impersonal actually you get some great doctor I've I've had some friends that have worked at different university programs And you get some great doctors too, but they have a lot of the nurses and the their friends will say oh go see this person They'll they'll get this taken care of and it's actually geared more towards students and not somebody My but I think the message is the most