Chapters 20
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1 The Broken Heart 2:02
The Broken Heart by John Donne.
He is stark mad, whoever says that he hath been in love an hour. Yet not that love so soon decays, but that it can ten in less space devour. Who will believe me if I swear that I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me if I should say I saw a flask of powder burn a day? How would a trifle as a heart if once into love's hands it come? All other griefs allow a part to other griefs, and ask themselves but some. They come to us, but us love draws. He swallows us and never chaws. By him, as by chain shot, whole ranks do die. He is the Tyrant Pike, our heart's the fry.
If t'were not so, what did become of my heart when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, but from the room I carried none with me. If it had gone to thee, I know mine would have taught thy heart to show more pity unto me. But love, alas, at one first blow did shiver it as glass.
Yet nothing can to nothing fall, nor any place be empty quite. Therefore I think my breast hath all those pieces still, though they be not unite.
And now, as broken glasses show a hundred lesser faces, so my rags of heart can like, wish, and adore. But after one such love can love no more.
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2 The Charge of the Light Brigade 1:52
half a league, half a league onward, All in the valley of death, rode the six hundred. Forward the light brigade, charge for the guns, he said, Into the valley of death, rode the six hundred. Forward the light brigade, Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldiers knew, someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them. Vollied and thundered, stormed at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode, and well, into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell, rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabring the gunners there, charging an army while, all the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery smoke, right through the line they broke. Cossack and Russian, reeled from the sabre stroke, shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not, not the six hundred. Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon behind them, volleyed and thundered, stormed at with shot and shell. While Horse and Hero fell, they that had fought so well, came through the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell. All that was left of them, left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made, all the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, honor the light brigade, noble six hundred.
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3 A Conservative 1:54
A Conservative by Charlotte Perkins S. Gilman The garden-beds I wandered by one bright and cheerful moon, when I found a new-fledged butterfly a-sitting on a thorn, a black and crimson butterfly, all doleful and forlorn. I thought that life could have no sting to infant butterflies, so I gazed on this unhappy thing with wonder and surprise, While sadly, with his wavering wing, he wiped his weeping eyes. Said I, What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore, with garden fair and sunlight free, and flowers in goodly store? But he only turned away from me and burst into a roar. Cried he, My legs are thin and few, where once I had a swarm. Soft fuzzy fur, a joy to view, Once kept my body warm, before these flapping wing-things grew to hamper and deform.
At that outrageous bug I shot, the fury of mine eye, said I, in scorn all burning hot, in rage and anger high. You ignoramus idiot! Those wings are made to fly! I do not want to fly, said he. I only want to squirm. And he trooped his wings dejectedly, but still his voice was firm. I do not want to be a fly. I want to be a worm. Oh, yesterday of unknown lack, to-day of unknown bliss. I left my fool in red and black. The last I saw was this—the creature madly climbing back into his chrysalis.
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4 The Decimal Point 1:32
The Decimal Point.
When first sent to school, now the station was rugby, I fancied my masters and took to the boys. I thought to myself, here tis plain I shall snug be, revolving at last in an orbit of joys. The alphabet Grecian I quickly could stammer, nor ran any risk of a jaw out of joint. I waddled sedately through fatherland grammar, but own I was floored by the decimal point. La Roi de Montaigne was my Gallic translation, and soon I was praised by my master who said, I certainly deemed that, with good education, a scholarship laurel should circle your head. I reveled in idioms, I thrilled at the phrases, I knew how to render a vaunt and a roint, but own that I shed many tears on the daisies, Of rugby when stumped by the decimal point.
I mastered the building proceedings of Balbus, and rarely omitted a requisite coom. I never remarked that an echo was albus, and deathly supplied the subjunctive but coom. No canis to me was a dog in the manger, a classic by fate I was clearly anoint. I own, though, I ran into desperate danger when fogged and befooled by the decimal point.
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5 The Gipsy Girl 1:21
The Gypsy Girl.
by Ralph Hodson. Read by Linda Wilcox. Come, try your skill, kind gentleman. A penny for three tries. Some threw and lost. Some threw and won a ten-a-penny prize. She was a tawny, gypsy girl, a girl of twenty years. I liked her for the lumps of gold that jingled from her ears. I liked the flaring yellow scarf bound loose around her throat. I liked her showy purple gown and flashy velvet coat. A man came up, too loose of tongue, And said no good to her. She did not blush, as saxons do, or turn upon a cur. She fawned and whined, Sweet gentlemen, a penny for three tries. But oh, the din of wild things in the darkness of her eyes.
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6 Go Down, Moses 1:13
Go Down, Moses.
Traditional.
When Israel was in Egypt's land, let my people go, oppressed so hard they could not stand. Let my people go. Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt's land. Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go.
So Moses went to Egypt's land. Let my people go. To make old Pharaoh understand, Let my people go. Thus spake the Lord, bold Moses said. Let my people go. If not, I'll strike your first-born dead. Let my people go.
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7 In August 0:57
Heat urges secret odors from the grass, blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill. Wings veer, inane needles of light, and pass. Laced pools, the warm wood shadows ebb and fill. The wind is casual, loitering to crush the sun upon his palate, and to draw pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush. Sucked up through thin gray boughs as through a straw. Moss-green, fern-green, and leaf and meadow-green are broken by the bare bone-colored roads, less moved by steering air than by unseen soft-footed ants and meditative toads. Summer is passing, taking what she brings, green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings.
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8 Into My Own 1:10
Into My Own by Robert Frost. Reading by Arctura. One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not as twere the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away into the edge of doom. I should not be withheld, but that some day, Into their vastness, I should steal away, fearless of ever finding open land or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why should Ere turn back, or though should not set forth upon my track, to overtake me, who should miss me here, and long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed. From him they knew, only more sure of all I thought was true.
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9 I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed 0:55
I taste the liquor never brewed from tankards scooped in pearl. Not all the vats upon the Rhine yield such an alcohol. Inebrite affair am I, an debauchee of dew, Reeling through endless summer days from inns of molten blue. When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the folks-glove store When butterflies renounce their droms I shall but drink the more Till serifs swing their snowy hats And saints to windows run To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun.
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10 Lord Randal 1:57
Lord Randall Traditional One. Oh, where have ye been, Lord Randall, my son? Oh, where have ye been, my handsome young man? I have been to the Wildwood. Mother, make my bed soon, for I'm weary with hunting, and thing wad lie down.
Two. Where got ye your dinner, Lord Randall, my son? Oh, where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man? I dine with my true love. Mother, make my bed soon, for I'm weary with hunting, and thing wad lie down.
Three. What got ye to your dinner, Lord Randall, my son? What got ye to your dinner, my handsome young man? I got eels boiled and brew. Mother, make my bed soon, for I'm weary with honey, and thing what lie down. Four. What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son? What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man? Oh, they swelled and they died. Mother, make my bed soon, for I'm weary with hunting and fain what lie down. 5. Oh, I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son. Oh, I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man. Oh, yes, I'm poisoned. Mother, make my bed soon, for I'm sick at heart and I fain what lie down.
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11 My Voice 1:00
My Voice by Oscar Wilde. Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes.
Within this restless, hurried, modern world, we took our hearts full pleasure, you and I, and now the white sails of our ship are furled and spent the lading of our agassiz. Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, For very weeping is my gladness fled. Sorrow hath paled my lips vermilion, and ruin draws the curtains of my bed. But all this crowded life has been to thee no more than lyre or lute, or subtle spell of viols, or the music of the sea that sleeps a mimic echo in the shell.
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12 Silentium Amoris 1:23
As oftentimes the too resplendent sun hurries the pallid and reluctant moon back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won a single ballad from the nightingale. So doth thy beauty make my lips to fail, and all my sweetest singing out of tune. And as at dawn across the level mead on wings impetuous some wind will come, and with its two harsh kisses break the reed which was its only instrument of song, so my two stormy passions work me wrong, and for excess of love my love is dumb. But surely unto thee mine eyes did show why I am silent and my lute unstrung. Else it were better we should part and go. Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, and I to nurse the barren memory of unkissed kisses and songs never sung.
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13 Sonnet II 0:55
Sonnet II by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Gorham Time does not bring relief. You all have lied who told me time would ease me of my pain. I miss him in the weeping of the rain. I want him at the shrinking of the tide. The old snows melt from every mountain-side, and last year's leaves are smoke in every lane. But last year's bitter loving must remain, heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear to go, so with his memory they brim, and entering with relief some quiet place, where never fell his foot or shone his face. I say, there is no memory of him here, and so stand stricken, so remembering him.
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14 A Statue in a Garden 1:20
A Statue in a Garden by Agnes Lee. Read for LibriVox.org by Betsy Bush in Marquette, Michigan, August, Two Thousand Sixth. I was a goddess ere the marble found me. Wind, wind, delay not. Waft my spirit where the laurel crowned me. Will the wind stay not? Then tarry, tarry, listen, little swallow. An old glory feeds me. I lay upon the bosom of Apollo. Not a bird heeds me. For here the days are alien. Oh, to waken, mine, mine with calling. But on my shoulders bare, like hopes forsaken, the dead leaves are falling. The sky is gray and full of unshed weeping, as dim down the garden. I wait and watch the early autumn sweeping. The stalks fade and harden. The souls of all the flowers afar have rallied, the trees gaunt appalling.
Attest the gloom, and on my shoulders pallid, the dead leaves are falling.
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15 Tarantella 1:25
Tarantella by Hilaire Billock. Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn? And the tedding and the bedding of the straw for a bedding, and the fleas that teased in the high Pyrenees, and the wine that tasted of tar, and the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers, Under the vine of the dark veranda. Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers who hadn't got a penny and who weren't paying any, and the hammer at the doors and the din. And the hip-hop-hap of the clap, of the hands to the swirl and the twirl, of the girl gone chancing, glancing, dancing, backing and advancing, snapping of the clapper to the spin, Out and in, and the ting-tong-tang of the guitar.
Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn? Nevermore, Miranda, nevermore. Only the high peak's horror, and Aragon a-torrent at the door. No sound. In the walls of the halls where falls the tread of the feet of the dead to the ground. No sound. But the boom of the far waterfall like doom.
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16 Tract 3:21
I will teach you, my townspeople, how to perform a funeral. For you have it over a troupe of artists, unless one should scour the world. You have the ground sense necessary. See, the hearse leads. I begin with a design for a hearse. For Christ's sake, not black, nor white either, and not polished. Let it be weathered, like a farm wagon, with gilt wheels. This could be applied fresh at small expense, or no wheels at all, a rough dray to drag over the ground. Knock the glass out. My God, glass, my townspeople! For what purpose? Is it for the dead to look out, or for us to see how well he is housed, or to see the flowers, or lack of them, or what? To keep the rain and snow from him? He will have a heavier rain soon, pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass, and no upholstery, whew, and no little brass rollers and small easy wheels at the bottom. My townspeople, what are you thinking of? A rough, plain hearse, then, with gilt wheels and no top at all. On this the coffin lies by its own weight. No wreaths, please. Especially no hot-house flowers. Some common memento is better, something he pries, than is known by. His old clothes, a few books, perhaps. God knows what. You realize how we are about these things, my townspeople? Something will be found. Anything, even flowers, if he had come to that. So much for the hearse. For heaven's sake, though, see to the driver. Take off the silk hat. In fact, there's no place at all for him, up there ceremoniously dragging our friend out to his own dignity.
Bring him down! Bring him down! Low and inconspicuous. I'll not have him ride on the wagon at all. Damn him! The undertaker's understrapper. Let him hold the reins and walk at the side, and inconspicuously, too. Then, briefly, as yourselves, walk behind, as they do in France, seventh class. Or, if you ride, hell, take curtains. Go with some show of inconvenience. Sit openly to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut grief in? What from us? We, who have perhaps nothing to lose? Share with us. Share with us. It will be money in your pockets. Go now. I think you are ready.
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17 Windy Nights 0:39
Windy Nights by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for LibriVox.org by Claire Cornelia. Whenever the moon and stars are set, whenever the wind is high, all night long in the dark and wet, a man goes riding by. Late in the night, when the fires are out, why does he gallop and gallop about? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, and ships are tossed at sea, by on the highway, low and loud, by at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then by he comes back at the gallop again.
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18 Winter in the Boulevard 1:24
The frost has settled down upon the trees, and ruthless strangled off the fantasies, of leaves that have gone unnoticed, sweat like gold, romantic stories now no more to be told. The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought, their abundant summery wardage silenced, caught, In the grim undertow, naked the trees confront, Implacable winters long, cross-questioning brunt. Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs? Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the perch? It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs, Sitting huddled against the crulean, one flush with their perch. The clear, The cold sky coldly bethinks itself, like vivid through the air spins bright, and all trees, birds, and earth are rested in the afterthought, awaiting the sentence out from the well kin brought.
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19 Woof of the Sun 1:35
Wolf of the Sun, Ithereal Gauze Wolf of the Sun, Ithereal Gauze Woven of nature's richest stuffs, visible heat, air, water, and dry sea.
Last conquest of the eye, toil of the day display'd, sun-dust.
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth, ithereal estuary, frith of light, breakers of air, billows of heat.
Find summer spray on inland seas.
Bird of the sun, transparent winged. Owlet of noon, soft pinioned.
From heath or stubble, rising without song, establish thy serenity o'er the fields.
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20 The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 4:58
The Yarn of the Nancy Bell by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox by John A. B.
August 2006, Boston, Massachusetts. Three sixty. Yahoo.com slash John A. B. Underscore John A. B.
Twas on the shores that round our coast from Deel to Ramsgate span, that I found alone on a piece of stone an elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, and weedy and long was he, and I heard this wight on the shore recite in a singular minor key. Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and a bosun tight, and a midship mate, and the crew of the captain's gig. And he shook his fists, and he tore his hair, till I really felt afraid, for I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, and so I simply said, "'Oh, elderly man, it's little I know of the duties of the men of the sea, but I'll eat my hand if I understand how you can possibly be at once a cook, and a Captain Bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brigg, and a bosun tight, and a midshipmate, and the crew of the Captain's Gig.' Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which is a trick all seamen learn, and having gotten rid of a thumping quid, he spun this painful yarn.
"'Twas in the good ship, Nancy Bell, that we sailed to the Indian Sea, and there on a reef we came to grief, which has often occurred to me, and pretty nigh all the crew was drowned. There were seventy-seven a soul. And only ten of the Nancy's men said here to the muster roll. There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and the bosentite, and a midshipmate, and the crew of the captain's gig. For a month we'd neither whittles nor drink, till hungry we did feel. So we drawed a lot, and a cordon shot the captain for our meal. The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, and a delicious dish he made. Then our appetite with the midship might we seven survivors stayed.
And then we murdered the bosun tight, and he much resembled a pig. Then we whittled free to the cook and me on the crew of the captain's gig. Then only the cook and me was left, and the delicate question Which of us two goes to the kettle, arose, and we argued it out as such. For I loved the cook as a brother I did, and the cook he worshipped me, but we'd both be blowed, if we'd either be stowed in the other chap's hold, you see. I'll be eat if he dines off me, says Tom. Yes, that, says I. You'll be. I'm boiled if I die, my friend, quoth I, and exactly so quoth he. Says he, Dear James, to murder me were a foolish thing to do, for don't you see that you can't cook me? Well, I can, and will, cook you.
So he boils the water and takes the salt and the pepper in portions true, which he never forgot, and some chopped shallot and some sage and parsley too. Come here, says he with a proper pride. Which his smiling features tell. "'T'will be soothing be if I let you see how extremely nice you'll smell." And he stirred it round and round and round, and he sniffed at the foaming froth. "'When I yaps with his heels and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth! And I ate that cook in a week or less. And—' As I eating be, the last of his chops, why, I almost drops, for a whistle in sight I see. And I never grin, and I never smile, and I never laugh nor play, but I sit and croak, and a singular joke I have which is to say.
Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and a bosun-tite, and a midship mite. And the crew of the captain's gig.