Chapters 29
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1 Abou Ben Adhem 1:49
and saw within the moonlight in his room, making it rich and like a lily in bloom, an angel writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben-Adam bold, and to the presence in the room he said, What writest thou? The vision raised its head, and with a look made of all sweet accord. Answered, the names of those who love the Lord. And is mine one? said Abu. Nay, not so, replied the angel. Abu spoke more low, but cheerly still, and said, I pray thee then, write to me as one that loves his fellow men. The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night, It came again with a great wakening light, and showed the names whom love of God had blessed. And lo, Ben Adam's name led all the rest.
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2 The Artilleryman 3:29
The Artillery Man's Vision by Walt Whitman While my wife at my side lies slumbering, And the wars are over long, and my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes. And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my infant. There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me. The engagement opens there and then, in fantasy unreal. The skirmishes begin. They crawl cautiously ahead. I hear the irregular snap, snap. I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short tht, tht, of the rifle balls. I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds. I hear the great shells shrieking as they pass, the grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees.
Tumultuous now, the contest rages. All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again. The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces. The chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects a fuse of the right time. After firing, I see him lean aside, and look eagerly off to note the effect. Elsewhere, I hear the cry of a regiment charging. The young colonel leads himself this time with brandished sword. I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, quickly filled up, no delay. I breathe the suffocating smoke. Then the flat clouds hover low, concealing all. Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either side. Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and orders of officers, while from some distant part of the field The wind wafts to my ears a shout of applause, some special success, and ever the sound of the cannon far or near, rousing, even in dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy in the depths of my soul, and ever the hastening of infantry, shifting positions, batteries, cavalry, moving hither and thither, The falling, dying, I heed not.
The wounding, dripping, and red, I heed not. Some to the rear are hobbling. Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camp's, galloping by, or on a full run. With the patter of small arms, the warning st of the rifles, these, in my vision, I hear or see, and bombs bursting in air, and at night, The very coloured rockets.
The end of the artilleryman's vision.
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3 As Kingfishers Catch Fire 1:40
As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Dragonflies Draw Flame by Gerard Manley Hopkins. As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame. As tumbled over rim and roundy wells, stones ring. Like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name. Each mortal thing does one thing and the same. Deals out that being indoors each one dwells. Selves, goes itself. Myself it speaks and spells, crying, What I do is me, for that I came.
I say more. The just man justices, keeps grace. That keeps all his goings graces. Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is, Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his to the Father through the features of men's faces.
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4 Because I Could Not Stop For Death 0:47
Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me, the carriage held but just ourselves in immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, and I had put away my labor and my leisure too, for his civility. We passed the school where children played, at wrestling in a ring. We passed the fields of gazing grain, we passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed a swelling of the ground. The roof was scarcely visible, the cornice but a mound. Since then tis centuries, but each feel shorter than the day, I first surmised the horses' heads were towards eternity.
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5 Casabianca 1:53
A flame that lit the rattle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm, a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though childlike, form. The flames rolled on. He would not go without his father's word, that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud, Say, father, say, if yet my task is done. He knew not that the chief son lay, unconscious of his son. Speak, father, once again he cried, if I may yet be gone. And but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and looked from that lone post of death, in still yet brave despair, and shouted but once more aloud, My father, must I stay?
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the reaving fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high. And streamed above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound. The boy, oh, where was he? Ask of the winds that far around, with fragments strewed to see. With mast, and helm, and pen and fair, that well had borne their part. But the noblest thing which perished there was that young faithful heart.
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6 Christmas Bells 1:41
I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old familiar carols play, and wild and sweet the words repeat of peace on earth, good will to men. And though, how as the day had come, the belfries of all Christendom had rolled along the unbroken song of peace on earth, goodwill to men. Till ringing, singing on its way, the world revolved from night to day, a voice, a chime, a chant sublime of peace on earth, goodwill to men. Then from each black accursed mouth the cannons thundered in the south, and with the sound the carols drowned. Of peace on earth, good will to men. It was as if an earthquake rent the heartstones of a continent, and made forlorn the households born of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head. There is no peace on earth, I said, for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men. Then pealed the bells more loud and deep. God is not dead, nor doth he sleep. The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men. Recorded December 17, 2005, in Elk River, Minnesota.
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7 Daffodils 1:49
I wandered lonely as a cloud. That floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils, beside the lake beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way, they stretched in never-ending line, Along the margin of a bay. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee. A poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought what whelped. The show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
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8 A Dead Boche 0:37
A Dead Bosch by Robert Graves. A public domain reading by Scott Monroe for LibriVox.org.
To you who'd read my songs of war, and only hear of blood and fame, I'll say, you've heard it said before, war's hell. And if you doubt the same, today I found in Mamet's wood a certain cure for lust of blood. Where, propped against a shattered trunk, in a great mess of things unclean sat a dead Bosch. He scowled and stunk with clothes and face of sodden green, big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, dribbling black blood from nose and beard.
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9 Dover Beach 2:34
Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold.
The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. The moon lies fair upon the straits. On the French coast, the light gleams and is gone. The cliffs of England stand, glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window. Sweet is the night air. Only from the long line of spray, where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, listen. You hear the grating roar of pebbles, which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand. Begin and cease. And then again begin with tremulous cadence slow, and bring the eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago heard it on the Aegean, and it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound a thought, hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The sea of faith was once, too, at the full, and round Earth's shore lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar retreating to the breath of the night wind. Down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true to one another. For the world Which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain. And we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.
End of Dover Beach. Recorded by Katherine Eastman, Redwood City, CA, December 28, 2005.
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10 Dulce et Decorum 2:22
Dulci et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knocked kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood shod. All went lame, all blind, drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the hoots of tired outstripped five nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, fitting the clumsy helmets just in time. But someone still was yelling out and stumbling and floundering, like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, he plunges at me, guttering, choking.
Drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face like a devil sick of sin. If you could hear at every jolt the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues.
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory the old lie dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Recorded in Nottingham, England on the 12th of November, 2005.
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11 The Old Familiar Faces 2:01
The Old Familiar Faces by Charles Lamb I have had playmates, I have had companions, in my days of childhood, in my joyful school days. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, With my bosom cronies. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, Fairest among women, Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her.
All are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend, has no man. Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly, left him to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghostlike, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces. How some they have died, and some they have left me, and some are taken from me. All are departed, all. All are gone.
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12 For Annie 4:23
Thank heaven, the crisis, the danger is past, and the lingering illness is over at last, and the fever called living is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength. And no muscle I move as I lie at full length, but no matter, I feel I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly now in my bed that any beholder might fancy me dead, might start at beholding me, thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, the sighing and sobbing are quieted now. With that horrible throbbing at heart, ah, that horrible, horrible throbbing. The sickness, the nausea, the pitiless pain, have ceased with the fever that maddened my brain, with the fever called living that burned in my brain. And, oh, of all tortures, that torture the worst has abated. The terrible torture of thirst. For the naphthalene river of passion accursed, I have drunk of a water that quenches all thirst, of a water that flows with a lullaby sound from a spring, but a very few feet underground, from a cavern not very far down underground.
And ah, let it never be foolishly said, that my room it is gloomy and narrow my bed, for man never slept in a different bed, and to sleep you must slumber in just such a bed. My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes, forgetting Or never regretting its roses, its old agitations of myrtles and roses. For now, while so quietly lying, it fancies a holier odor about it, of pansies, a rosemary odor, commingled with pansies, with rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, bathing in many a dream of the truth and the beauty of Annie, drowned in a bath of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, she fondly caressed, and then I fell gently to sleep on her breast, deeply to sleep from the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished, she covered me warm, and she prayed to the angels to keep me from harm, to the queen of the angels to shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly now in my bed, knowing her love, that you fancy me dead, and I rest so contentedly now in my bed, with her love at my breast, That you fancy me dead, that you shudder to look at me, thinking me dead. But my heart, it is brighter than all of the many stars in the sky, for it sparkles with Annie. It glows with the light of the love of my Annie, with the thought of the light of the eyes of my Annie.
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13 How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 4:31
How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.
I sprang to the stirrup, And Joris, and he—I galloped, Dirk galloped, we galloped all three. "'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew. "'Speed!' echoed the wall to us, galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other, we kept the great pace, neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place. I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the peak right. Re-buckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily Rowland awhit. "'Twas moonset at starting, but while we drew near Lowcairin, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear. At Bohm, a great yellow star came out to sea. At Dufild, "'Twas morning as plain as could be.' And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so Joris broke silence with, Yet there is time.
At Airshot up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past. And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river had land its spray.
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track. And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance, or its white edge at me, his own master, askance. And the thick, heavy spume-flakes, which, aye, and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirk groaned, and cried Joris, Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. We'll remember at Aix. For one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I, past Lose and past Tongray, no cloud in the sky. The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh. Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff, till over by Dalhem a domespire sprang white, and—Gallop! gasped Joris, for Aix is in sight. How they'll greet us! And all in a moment his roan, rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone. And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate. With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer. Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length, into Aix, Roland galloped, and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round, as I sat, with his head twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, as I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which, the Burgesses voted by common consent, was no more than his due, who brought good news from Ghent.
Recorded on November 14, 2005, in Oceanside, California.
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14 Heat 0:49
Heat by Hilda Doolittle. Read by Annie Coleman for LibriVox.org.
O wind, rend open the heat. Cut apart the heat. Rend it to tatters. Fruit cannot drop through this thick air. Fruit cannot fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes. Cut the heat, plow through it, turning it on either side of your path.
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15 I Died for Beauty 1:10
Louis, Missouri on December 8, 2005. I died for beauty, but was scarce, by Emily Dickinson. I died for beauty, But was scarce adjusted in the tomb, when one who died for truth was lain in an adjoining room. He questioned softly, Why I failed? For beauty, I replied. And I, for truth, themself are one. We brethren are, he said. And so, as kinsmen met a knight, we talked between the rooms. Until the moss had reached our lips and covered up our names.
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16 Lament of the Irish Emigrant 3:41
Lament of the Irish Emigrant by Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin.
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat, side by side, On a bright May morning long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright, As then, the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again. But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek, and I still keep listening for the words you never more will speak. "'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, the church where we were wed, Mary. I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest, for I've laid you, darling, down to sleep with your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends, but, oh, they love the better still, the few our father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride. There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on when the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow. I bless you, Mary, for that same, though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile when your heart was fit to break, when the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake. I bless you for the pleasant word when your heart was sad and sore. Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can't reach you more. I'm bidding you a long They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there, but I'll not forget old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair.
And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, and my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies, and I'll think I see the little stile where we sat, sighed. I sighed, and the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride.
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17 Jenny Kissed Me 0:57
Jenny Kissed Me by Lee Hunt Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Say I'm weary. Say I'm sad. Say that health and wealth have missed me. Say I'm growing old.
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18 Kublai Khan 3:39
Kublai Khan, or A Vision in a Dream. A fragment by Samuel Taylor Coleridge In Xanadu did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree, where Alf, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground, with walls and towers, were girded round, and there were gardens Slanted down the green hill athwart a sedent cover. A savage place, as holy and enchanted as e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover. And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, as if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, a mighty fountain momently was forced. Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst, huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail.
And, mid these dancing rocks, at once and ever, it flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles, meandering With this tumult, Kublai heard from far ancestral voices prophesying war. The shadow of the Dome of Pleasure floated midway on the waves, where was heard the mingled measure from the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, a sunny pleasure dome.
A damsel with a dulcimer, in a vision once I saw, it was an Abyssinian maid, and on her dulcimer she played, singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me her symphony and song, to such a deep delight twould win me, that with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, that sunny dome, those caves of ice. And all who heard Beware, beware, his flashing eyes, his floating hair. Weave a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy dread, for he on honey
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19 The Last Rose of Summer 1:30
The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore.
It is the last rose of summer. Left blooming alone, all her lovely companions are faded and gone. No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem, since the lovely are sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them. Thus Kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie, scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, when friendships decay, and from love's shining circle the gems drop away, when true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown.
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20 Laughing Corn 1:38
Marquette, Michigan, December 2005. Laughing Corn by Carl Sandburg.
There was a high majestic fooling day before yesterday in the yellow corn, and day after tomorrow in the yellow corn there will be a high majestic fooling. The ears ripen in late summer and come on with a conquering laughter, come on with a high and conquering laughter. The long-tailed blackbirds are hoarse. One of the smaller blackbirds chitters on a stalk, and her spot of red is on its shoulder. And I never heard its name in my life. Some of the ears are bursting. A white juice works inside. Corn silk creeps in the end and dangles in the wind. Always, I never knew it any other way, the wind and the corn talk things over together. And the rain and the corn and the sun and the corn talk things over together.
Over the road is the farmhouse. The siding is white in a green blind, is slung loose. It will not be fixed till the corn is husked. The farmer and his wife talk things over together.
End of Laughing Corn
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21 Love and Age 3:39
Love and Age I played with you mid cowslips blowing When I was six, and you were four, When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, O'er grass and heather, with little playmates, To and fro, we wandered hand in hand together, But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong. Still with no care our days were laden. They glided joyously along. And I did love you very dearly. How dearly words want power to show. I thought your heart was touched as nearly, but that was fifty years ago. Then other lovers came around you. Your beauty grew from year to year. And many a splendid circle found you the centre of its glimmering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking, on rank and wealth your hand bestow. Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking, but that was forty years ago. And I lived on to wed another. No cause she gave me to repine, and when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, made up a pleasant Christmas row. My joy in them was past expression, but that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron, plump and comely. You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze. My earthly lot was far more homely. But I, too, had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened around the hearthstone's wintry glow than when my youngest child was christened, but that was twenty years ago. Time passed. My eldest girl was married, and I am now a grandsire, Gray. One pet of four years old I've carried among the wildflowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, where now, as then, the cowslips blow, she fills her basket's ample measure, and that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassioned blindness has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, and shall do till our last good night.
The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, when our young days of
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22 The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 8:20
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot.
Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient. Etherized upon a table. Let us go through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels, and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells. Streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question. Oh, do not ask, what is it? Let us go, and make our visit. In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, and Seeing that it was a soft October night, curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And, indeed, there will be time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street, rubbing its back upon the window panes. There will be time, there will be time, to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet. There will be time to murder and create. And time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate. Time for you, and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.
And, indeed, there will be time to wonder, Do I dare? and Do I dare? Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair. They will say, How his hair is growing thin. My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin. They will say, But how his arms and legs are thin. Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all, Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all, the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase. And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all, arms that are braceleted and white and bare. But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair. Is it perfume from a dress that makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl? And should I then presume? And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets, And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men in shirt sleeves leaning out of windows. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully, smoothed by long fingers, asleep, tired. Or it malingers, stretched on the floor here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head, grown slightly bald, Brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet. And here is no great matter. I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat. And snicker, and, in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all? After the cups, the marmalade, the tea? Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worthwhile to have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball, To roll it toward some overwhelming question? To say, I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all. If one, settling a pillow by her head, should say, That is not what I meant at all, that is not it at all.
And would it have been worth it after all? Would it have been worthwhile after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets? After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor, and this, and so much more. It is impossible to say just what I mean, but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen, would it have been worthwhile? If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl and turning toward the window, should say, That is not it at all. That is not what I meant at all.
No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be. An attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince, no doubt an easy tool, deferential, glad to be of use, politic, cautious, and meticulous. Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse, at times indeed almost ridiculous, almost at times the fool.
I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers. And walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, combing the white hair of the waves blown back when the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered. In the chambers of the sea, by seagirls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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23 Ode 314 1:27
Ode 314 by Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi Those who don't feel this love, pulling them like a river. Those who don't drink dawn like a cup of spring water, or take in sunset like supper. Those who don't want to change, let them sleep.
This love is beyond the study of theology, that old trickery and hypocrisy. If you want to improve your mind that way, sleep on.
I've given up on my brain. I've torn the cloth to shreds and thrown it away. If you are not completely naked, wrap your beautiful robe of words around you and sleep.
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24 The Tell-Tale Heart 12:48
The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. Read by Sean Randall. The Tell-Tale Heart.
True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am. But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in heaven and in earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Harken, and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but once conceived it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture, a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold, and so, by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rip myself of the eye for ever. Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Mad men know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded with what I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him, and every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh so gently, and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in the dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head.
Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in. I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep.
It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening, so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ah! Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously. Oh, so cautiously, cautiously, for the hinges creaked. I ended it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye, and this I did for seven and a long nights, every night just at midnight. But I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him my name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night.
So, you see, he would have been a very profound old man indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Ever before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph, to think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back, but no, His room was as black as pitch with a thick darkness, for the shutters were close-fastened through fear of robbers, and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in and was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "'Who's there?' I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening, just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death-watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was a groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh, no! It was a low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it is welled up from my own bosom, deepening with its dreadful echo the terrors that distracted me.
I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, It is nothing but the wind in the chimney. It is only a mouse crossing the floor. Or, It is merely a cricket, but is made of single chirp. Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he has found all in vain. All in vain because death, in approaching him, has stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little, a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You could not imagine how stealthily, stealthily, until, at length, A single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness, all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow of my bones. But I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot. And now, have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?
Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates a soldier into courage, but even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime, the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, louder and louder every instant. The old mind's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment. Do you hark me well? I have told you that I am nervous. So I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, So strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.
Yet, for some minutes longer, I refrained and stood still, but the beating grew louder, louder. I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbor. The old man's hour had come. With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked. Once. Once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily to find the deed so far done, but for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead.
I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer, when I described the wise precautions I took for concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily But in silence. I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the board so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out, no stain of any kind, no blood-spot whatever. I had been too weary for that. When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock, still dark as midnight.
As the bell sounded the hour, there came a-knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, for what had I now to fear? There entered three men who introduced themselves with perfect swobbery as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night. Suspicion of foul play had been aroused. Information had been lodged at the police office, and they, the officers, had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentleman welcome. The shriek, I said, with my own in a dream. The old man I mentioned was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well. I led them at length to his chamber.
I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But along I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied ringing in my ears. But still they sat, still they chatted. The ringing became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definitiveness, until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale, but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased, and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound, much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.
I gaffed for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles in high key and with violent gesticulations. But the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. Oh God, what could I do? I foamed. I raved. I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God, no! No! They heard. They suspected. They knew. They were making a mockery of my horror. This I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die, and now again hark louder, louder, louder, louder! Recorded. On Sunday, November 27th, 2005. By Sean Randall, in South Wales, United Kingdom.
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25 The Queen of Hearts 1:42
The Queen of Hearts by Christina Rossetti How comes it, Flora, that whenever we play cards together, you invariably, however the pack parts, still hold the Queen of Hearts? I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze. Resolve to fathom these your secret ways, but sift them as I will, your ways are secret still. I cut and shuffle, shuffle, cut again, but all my cutting, shuffling, proofs in vain. Vain hope, vain forethought too, the queen still falls to you. I dropped her once, prepense, but ere the deal was dealt, your instincts seemed her loss to feel. "'There should be one card more,' you said, and searched the floor. I cheated once. I made a private notch in Hart Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch.
Yet such another back deceived me in the pack. The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown an imitative dint that seemed my own. This notch, not of my doing, misled me to my ruin." It baffles me to puzzle out the clue, which must be skill or craft or luck in you, unless indeed it be natural affinity.
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26 The Road Not Taken 1:54
Louis, Missouri on December 14, 2005. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and, sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim, because it was grassy and wanted wear. Though, as for that, the passing there had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay, in leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh. Somewhere, ages and ages hence, two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
End of The Road Not Taken
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27 My Shadow 1:36
My Shadow by Robert Louis Stevenson. I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, and what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He's very, very like me from the heels up to the head, and I see him jump Before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow. Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow. For sometimes he shoots up taller than an India rubber ball, and sometimes he grows so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays too close behind me. He's a coward, you can see. I'd think shame to stick to Nursey, as that shadow sticks to me.
One morning very early before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup. But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepyhead, had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. Read by Henry Fregon. Spaceman3000.blogspot.com. On December... September 6, 2005, in Oceanside, California.
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28 Thou Art not Lovelier than Lilacs No 1:29
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs, no. By Edna St. Vincent Millay. Reading by Annie Coleman for LibriVox.org. On December 14th, 2005. Thou art not lovelier than lilacs, no, nor honeysuckle. Thou art not more fair. Then small white single poppies. I can bear thy beauty, though I bend before thee, though from left to right, not knowing where to go, I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there find any refuge from thee. Yet I swear, so has it been with mist, with moonlight so. Like him, Who day by day unto his draught of delicate poison adds him one drop more till he may drink unharmed the death of ten. Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed each hour more deeply than the hour before, I drink and live what has destroyed some men.
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29 Wreck Of The Hesperus 3:35
It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, and the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day, and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that open the month of May. The skipper, he stood beside the helm, his pipe was in his mouth, and he watched how the veering flaw did blow the smoke now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor had sailed to the Spanish main. I pray thee, put into yonder port, for I fear a hurricane. Last night the moon had a golden ring, and tonight no moon we see. The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe. And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, a gale from the northeast.
The snow fell hissing in the brine, and the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain the vessel in its strength. She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, then leaped her cable's length. Come hither, come hither, my little daughter, and do not tremble so, for I can weather the roughest gale that ever wind did blow. He wrapped her arm in his seaman's coat against the stinging blast. He cut a rope from a broken spar and bound her to the mast. "'Oh, Father, I hear the church bells ring! Oh, say what may it be!' "'Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast." And he steered for the open sea. "'Oh, Father, I hear the sound of guns! Oh, say what may it be!' "'Some ship in distress that cannot live in such an angry sea.'" Oh, Father, I see a gleaming light!
Oh, say, what may it be? But the Father answered never a word. A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, with his face turned to the skies, the lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed that savid she might be, and she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave on the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, through the whistling sleet and snow, like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept toward the reef of Norman's woe. And ever the fitful gusts between, a sound came from the land. It was the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks in the hard sea sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows.
She drifted a dreary wreck, and a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves looked soft as carded wool, but the cruel rocks, they gored her side like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice where the masts went by the board. Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank. Ho, ho, the breakers roared. At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, a fisherman stood aghast to see the form of a maiden fair. Lash close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, the salt tears in her eyes, and he saw her hair like the brown seaweed on the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus in the midnight and the snow.
Christ save us all from a death like this on the reef of Norman's woe.