Chapters 32
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1 Advice to a Girl 0:40
Advice to a Girl by Sarah Teasdale.
No one worth possessing can be quiet possessed. Lay that on your heart, my young angry dear. This truth, this hard and precious stone, Lay it on your hot cheek, let it hide your tear, Hold it like a crystal when you are alone, And gaze in the depths of the icy stone. Long, look long, and you will be blessed. No one worth possessing can be quiet possessed.
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2 After Apple-Picking 2:07
After Apple Picking by Robert Frost from the 1914 Collection, North of Boston. Read in 2000 for LibriVox.org by Dennis Lane in Pretoria, South Africa.
My long, two-pointed ladders sticking through a tree towards heaven still. And there's a barrel that I didn't fill beside it, and there may be two or three apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I'm done with apple picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, the scent of apples. I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight. I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough, and held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well upon the way to sleep before it fell, and I could tell what form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, stem-end and blossom-end, and every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache, it keeps the pressure of a ladder round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend, and I keep hearing from the cellar bin the rumbling sound of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much of apple-picking, I am overtired of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall, for all that struck the earth, no matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, went surely to the side apple-heap, as of no worth. One can see what will trouble this sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, the woodchuck could say whether it is like his long sleep, as I describe it coming on, or just some human sleep.
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3 Bredon Hill 1:56
Breedon Hill by A. E. Houseman.
In summertime on Breedon, the bells they sound so clear, Round both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning my love and I would lie and see the colored counties and hear the larks so high about us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her in valleys miles away. Come all to church, good people, good people, come and pray. But here my love would stay, and I would turn and answer among the springing time. Oh, peal upon our wedding, and we will hear the chime, and come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas on Bredentop were strewn, my love rose up so early, and stole out unbeknown, and went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only. Groom, there was none to see. The mourners followed after, and so to church went she, and would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on bredon, and still the steeples hum. Come all to church, good people. O noisy bells, be dumb. I hear you. I will come.
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4 The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava 4:52
The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava, October 25, 1854, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Read for LibriVox.org, by Martin Gieson, in Hazelmere, Surrey.
The Charge of the Gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade. Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, thousands of horsemen drew to the valley and stayed. For Scarlet and Scarlet's three hundred were riding by when the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky, and he called left wheel into line, and they wheeled and obeyed. Then he looked at the host that had halted, he knew not why, and he turned half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound to the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade to the gallant three hundred, whose glory will never die. Follow! And up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, followed the heavy brigade. The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight.
Thousands of horsemen had gathered there on the height, with a wing pushed out to the left, and a wing to the right, and who shall escape if they close? But he dashed up alone through the great gray slope of men, swayed his sabre, and held his own like an Englishman, there and then. All in a moment followed with force, three that were next in their fiery course, wedged themselves in between horse and horse, fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made, four amid thousands, and up Up the hill, up the hill, Gallop'd the gallant, three hundred, the heavy brigade. Fell like a cannon shot, Burst like a thunderbolt, Crash'd like a hurricane, Broke through the mass from below, Drove through the midst of the foe, Plunged up and down, to and fro, rode flashing blow upon blow, brave inieskillings and greys, whirling their sabres in circles of light.
And some of us, all in a maze, who were held for a while from the fight, and were only standing at gaze, when the dark-muffled Russian crowd folded its wings from the left and the right, and rolled them around like a cloud, O mad for the charge and the battle were we, when our own good red-coats sank from sight, like drops of blood in a dark grey sea, and we turned to each other, whispering, all dismayed, Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlet's Brigade. Lost, one and all, where the words muttered in our dismay. But they rode like victors and lords through the forest of lances and swords in the heart of the Russian hordes. They rode, or they stood at bay, struck with the sword-hand and slew, Down with the bridle-hand, drew the foe from the saddle, and threw underfoot there in the fray, ranged like a storm, or stood like a rock in the wave of a stormy day, till suddenly shock upon shock staggered the mass from without, drove it in wild disarray.
For our men galloped up with a cheer and a shout, and the foemen surged and wavered and reeled up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, and over the brow and away. Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made. Glory to all the three hundred. And all the brigade.
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5 The Day We Do Not Celebrate 2:36
The Day We Do Not Celebrate by Robert J. Burdett. Read for LibriVox.
By Bill Moseley, Fralesburg, Texas, U.S.A., on July 3rd, 2010. One famous day in great July, John Adams said, long years gone by, this day that makes a people free shall be the people's jubilee, with games, guns, sports, and shows displayed, with bells, pomp, bonfires, and parade, throughout this land, from shore to shore, from this time forth forevermore.
The years Passed on and by and by. Men's hearts grew cold in hot July, and Mayor Howarden Chalmondley said, Hoth rockets I am so afraid, and if you send one up ablaze, I'll send you up for sixty days. Then said the Mayor O'Shea McQuaid, There is no nade for no parade.
And Mayor Hans von Schwartzenmayer proclaimed, I'll have me no bonfire. Said Mayor Baptiste Raphael, No make a ring of dat a bell.
By gar, cried Mayor Jean This July games will has to go. And Mayor Canute Christofferson said, Deyeth to him who fares a gun.
At last, cried Mayor One Lung Lee, to Muchee Hoopla, Bobbery. And so the Yankee holiday of proclamations Passed away.
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6 Discord in Childhood 0:49
Discord in Childhood Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips, and at night, when the wind arose, the lash of the tree shrieked and slashed the wind as a ship's weird rigging and a storm shrieks hideously. Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slender lash whistling delirious with rage, and the dreadful sound of a thick lash booming and bruising, until it drowned the other voice in a silence of blood. Neath the noise of the ash.
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7 Eldorado 1:14
El Dorado by Edgar Allan Poe.
Gayly bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow, had journeyed long, singing a song in search of El Dorado. But he grew old, this knight so bold, And o'er his heart a shadow. Fell as he found no spot of ground that looked like El Dorado. And his strength failed him at length. He met a pilgrim shadow. Shadow, says he, where can it be, this land of El Dorado? Over the mountains of the moon, down the valley of the shadow. Ride, boldly ride. The shade replied, if you seek El Dorado.
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8 Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare 1:03
Euclid alone has looked on beauty bare.
Let all who prate of beauty hold their peace, and lay them prone upon the earth, and cease to ponder on themselves, the while they stare at nothing, intricately drawn nowhere in shapes of shifting lineage. Let geese gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release from dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O wholly terrible day, when first the shaft into his vision shone of light anatomized. Euclid alone has looked on beauty bare. Fortunate they who, though once only, and then but far away, have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
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9 Fire and Ice 0:50
Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to know that for destruction ice is also great, and would suffice.
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10 Ghosts 2:05
Ghosts by Marguerite Mowers Marshall. They call you cold New England, but underneath your snow is blood as red as roses that in your gardens blow. The God that lights your forests With torch of cardinal flower, forbids that ever the Puritan escape his crimson hour. The flame that skims, brown furrows the scarlet tanager's breast, is signed to preacher and ploughman of dreams that haunt their rest. When witch and warlock perish, by forgot scaffold and tree, their tortures slew their bodies. But set their spirits free.
In freedom gliding, gloating, through the haunts their children claim, the swollen ghosts of the wicked grow fat on new-wrought shame.
The old sweet evil lingers, the demon of uncontroll, and madness creeps and crouches in every haggard soul. And he who held moon revels in Salem forest deep, well loves his hypocrite servants, nor seeks to spoil their sleep. They call you cold, New England, but surely even your snow is drift, not of ice but of ashes, to guard the flames below.
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11 His Books 1:17
My days among the dead are past, Around me I behold, where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old. My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse, day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe. And while I understand and feel how much to them I owe, my cheeks have often been bedewed with tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the dead. With them I live in long-past years. Their virtues love. Their faults condemn. Partake their hopes and fears. And from their lessons seek and find instruction with a humble mind. My hopes are with the dead. Anon my place with them will be, and I with them shall travel on through all futurity. Yet leaving here a name I trust that will not perish in the dust.
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12 How Many Bards Gild the Lapses of Time! 1:25
How Many Bards Gild the Lapses of Time?
A few of them have ever been the food of my delighted fancy. I could brood over their beauties, earthly or sublime, and often When I sit me down to rhyme, these will in throngs before my mind intrude. But no confusion, no disturbance rude do they occasion. Tis a pleasing chime. So the unnumbered sounds that evening store, the songs of birds, the whisper of the leaves, pleasing music, the voice of waters. The great bell that heaves with solemn sound, and thousands others more. That distance of recognizance bereaves, makes pleasing music, and will not uproar.
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13 The Human Seasons 0:59
The Human Seasons by John Keats. Four seasons fill the measure of the year. There are four seasons in the mind of man. He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear takes in all beauty with an easy span. He has his summer, when luxuriously springs honey-cud of youthful thought. He loves to ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven. Quiet coves his soul has in its autumn, When his wings he furleth closed, Contented so to look on mists in idleness, To let fair things pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his winter, too, of pale misfeiture, Or else he would forgo his mortal nature.
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14 Inviting a Friend to Supper - Read by EEF 2:15
Inviting a Friend to Supper by Ben Jonson. Read for LibriVox. Org by Mr. Frerking. Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house and I do equally desire your company. Not that we think us worthy such a guest, but that your worth will dignify our feast with those that come, whose grace may make that seem something which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates the entertainment perfect, not the Cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, an olive, capers, or some better salad ushering the mutton, with a short-legged hen, if we can get her, full of eggs, and then lemons, and wine for sauce, to these a cony is not to be despaired of, for our money. And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, the sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lie so you will come, of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some may yet be there, and Godwit, if we can, knot, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoever my man shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or some better book to us, of which we'll speak our minds amidst our meat, and I'll profess no verses to repeat to this, if aught appear which I know not of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be, but that which most doth take my muse and me is a pure cup of rich canary wine, which is the mermaid's now, but shall be mine. Of which had Horace or Anacreon tasted their lives, so as their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the thesbyan spring are all but Luther's beer to this I sing, of this we will sup free, but moderately, and we will have no pulley or parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men, but at our parting we will be as when we innocently met.
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15 I Shall Not Care 0:46
Org by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio, July, Two Thousand Ten.
When I am dead, and over me bright April shakes out her rain-drenched hair, though you shall lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful when rain bends down the bough. And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted than you are now.
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16 Love at Large 1:20
Love at Large, by Coventry Patmore, by David Barnes.
Whenever I come where ladies are, How sad soever I was before, Though like a ship frost-bound and far withheld in ice from the ocean's roar, Third wintered in that dreadful dock, With stiffened cordage, sails decayed, And crew that care for calm and shock alike, too dull to be dismayed. Yet, if I come where ladies are, how sad soever I was before, then is my sadness banished far, and I am like that ship no more. Or like that ship if the ice-field splits, burst by the sudden polar spring, And all thank God with their warming wits, And kiss each other and dance and sing, And hoist fresh sails that make the breeze Blow them along the liquid sea, Out of the north where life did freeze, Into the haven where they would be.
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17 Meeting at Night 0:54
Meeting at Night The grey sea and the long black land and the yellow half-moon large and low, and the startled little waves that leap in fiery ringlets from their sleep as I gain the cove with pushing prow and quench its speed o' the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach, Three fields to cross till a farm appears, A tap at the pane, The quick sharp scratch and blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud through joys and fears Than two hearts beating each to each.
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18 Mutability 1:47
They say there's a high windless world and strange Out of the wash of days and temporal tide Where faith and good, wisdom and truth abide Aeterna corpora, subject to no change. There the sure suns of these pale shadows move. There stand the immortal ensigns of our war, our melting flesh, fixed beauty there a star, and perishing hearts, Imperishable love. Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile. Each kiss lasts but the kissing, and grief goes over. Love has no habitation but the heart. Poor straws on the dark flood. We catch a while, cling, and are born into the night apart. The laugh dies with the lips. Love with the lover.
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19 My Life Has Been the Poem 0:26
My life has been the poem I would have writ, but I could not both live and utter it.
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20 My Midnight Meditation 0:54
My Midnight Meditation, by Henry King.
Ill-busied man, why shouldest thou take such care to lengthen out thy life's short calendar, when every spectacle thou lookest upon presents and acts thy execution? Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, Fool! as I fade and wither thou must die, the beating of thy pulse. When thou art well, is just the tolling of thy passing bell. Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy covers alike deceased day and thee, and all those weeping dews which nightly fall are but the tears shed for thy funeral.
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21 Ozymandias of Egypt 1:18
I met a traveler from an antique land who said, To vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, Whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command, tell that its culture well those passions read, which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my works, ye mighty and despair. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.
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22 Ozymandias 1:02
Ozymandias by Percy Shelley.
I met a traveler from an antique land, Who said, Two vast and trunkless legs of stone, Stand in the desert, Near them on the sand, Half-sunk a shattered visage lies, Whose frown and wrinkled lip And sneer of cold command, Till that its sculptor well These passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear, My name is Ozymandias, King of kings. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Nothing beside remains, round the decay, Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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23 A Pinch of Salt 1:07
A Pinch of Salt by Robert Graves. Read for library box.org by Maria Grazia Tundo. When a dream is born in you with a sudden clamorous pain, when you know the dream is true and lovely with no flow nor stain, oh, then be careful, for with sudden clutch you'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. Dreams are like a bird that mocks, flirting the feathers of his tail. When you seize at the salt-box, O'er the head you'll see in sail. All birds are neither caught with salt nor char. They watch you from the apple-bow and laugh. Poet, never chase the dream. Love yourself and turn away. Mask your hunger. Let it seem small matter, if he come or stay. But when he nestles in your hand, at last, Close up your fingers tight, hand-holding fast.
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24 Richard Cory - Read by EEF 1:04
Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson.
Whenever Richard Cory went downtown, we people on the pavement looked at him. He was a gentleman, from sole to crown, clean-favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, and he was always human when he talked, but still he fluttered pulses when he said, Good morning, and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich, yes, richer than a king, and admirably schooled in every grace. In fine, we thought that he was everything to make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, and went without the meat, and cursed the bread, and Richard Cory, one calm summer night, went home, and put a bullet through his head.
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25 War Song of the Saracens 1:42
War Song of the Saracens by James Elroy Flecker.
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 on summit we lie, nor on curt and 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 Maroo and Balgar, our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Vroom. We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we all go there again. We have stood on the shore of the plain where the waters of destiny boom.
A mart of destruction we made at Jolula, 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 drave 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 Stamboul, 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.
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26 She Walks in Beauty 1:03
She Walks in Beauty She Walks in Beauty like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright, Neat in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven dress, or softly lightens o'er her face, where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent.
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27 Stillness 1:03
Stillness by James Elroy Flecker.
When the words rustle no more, and the last work's done, when the bolt lies deep in the door, and fire, our sun, falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor, When from the clock's last time to the next chime, silence beats his drum. And space, with gaunt gray eyes, and her brother time, wheeling and whispering come, she with the mold of form, and he with the loom of rhyme. Then, twittering out in the night, my thought-birds flee. I am emptied of all my dreams. I only hear earth turning, only see ether's long bankless streams. And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.
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28 The Toys 2:04
The Toys My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, and moved and spoke in quite grown-up wise, having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed with hard words and unkissed, his mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, but found him slumbering deep, with darkened eyelids and their lashes yet from his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, kissing away his tears, left others of my own. For on a table, drawn beside his head, He had put within his reach a box of counters and a red-veined stone, a piece of glass abraded by the beach, and six or seven shells, a bottle with bluebells, and two French copper coins ranged there with careful art to comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I prayed to God, I wept and said, Ah! When at last we lie with tranced breath, not vexing thee in death, and thou rememberest of what toys we made our joys, how weakly understood thy great commanded good. Then, fatherly no less than I, whom thou hast moulded from the clay, thou'lt leave thy wrath and say, I will be sorry for their childishness.
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29 Under The Waterfall 2:57
South Africa.
Whenever I plunge my arm, like this, in a basin of water, I never miss the sweet, sharp sense of a fugitive day, fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. Hence the only prime and real love rhyme that I know by heart, and at least know smart, is the pearl of a little valley fall, about three spans wide and two spans tall, over a table of solid rock, and into a scoop of the selfsame block, the pearl of a runlet that never ceases, in stir of kingdoms, in wars, in pieces, with a hollow boiling voice it speaks, And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks. And why gives this the only prime idea to you of a real love rhyme? And why does plunging your arm in a bowl full of spring water bring throbs to your soul?
Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone, though precisely where none ever has known, jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized, and by now with its smoothness opalized, is a drinking-glass, for, down that pass, my lover and I walked under a sky of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green in the burn of August to paint the scene. And we placed our basket of fruit and wine by the runlet's rim, where we sat to dine. And when we had drunk from the glass together, arched by the oak-copse from the weather, I held the vessel to rinse in the fall, where it slipped, And it sank, and was past recall, though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss with long-bared arms. There the glass still is. And, as said, if I thrust my arm below cold water, in a basin or bowl, a throw from the past awakens a sense of that time, and the glass we used, and the cascades rhyme.
The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard, smooth face of the brookside ledge, and the leafy pattern of chinaware, the hanging plants that were bathing there. By night, by day, when it shines or lowers, there lies intact that chalice of ours, and its presence adds to the rhyme of love persistently sung by the fall above. No lip has touched it since his and mine, in turns therefrom, sipped lover's wine.
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30 Up-Hill 1:00
Does the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place, A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin? May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night, those who have gone before? Then must I knock or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel sore and weak? Of labor you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.
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31 When We Two Parted 1:25
When we two parted in silence and tears, Half-broken-hearted to sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek, and cold, colder thy kiss. Truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow. It felt like the warning of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame. I hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame.
They name thee before me, a knell to mine ear. A shudder comes o'er me, why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, who knew thee too well. Long, long shall I rue thee too deeply to tell. In secret we met. In silence I grieve that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee with silence and tears?
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32 Winter-Time 1:11
The late lies the wintry sun abed, A frosty, fiery, sleepy head. Blinks but an hour or two, and then a blood-red-orange sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, Yet, mourning in the dark, I rise, and shivering in my nakedness by the cold candle, bathe, and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit, to warm my frozen bones a bit, or with a reindeer's lead explore the colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap, me in my comforter and cap. The cold wind burns my face and blows in its frosty pepper up my nose. Blacks are my steps on silver sod, thick blows my frosty breath abroad, and tree and house and hill and lake are frosted like a wedding cake.