Short Poetry Collection 094 by Various — Free Audiobook

1 After Love 0:44

2 The Arsenal at Springfield 3:19

The Arsenal at Springfield, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms. But from their silent pipes, no anthem-peeling startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, when the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal miserere will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, the cries of agony, the endless groan, which through the ages that have gone before us in long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the saxon hammer, through Sembrick forests roars the Norseman's song, and loud amid the universal clamor o'er distant deserts sounds the tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, and Aztec priests upon their teocallus beat the wild war-drums made of serpent-skin. The tumult of each sacked and burning village, the shout that every prayer for mercy drowns, the soldiers revels in the midst of pillage, the wail of famine in beleaguered towns, the bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, the rattling musketry, the clashing blade, and ever and anon in tones of thunder the diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, with such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices, and jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts. The warrior's name would be a name abhorred, and every nation that should lift again its hand against a brother on its forehead would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. Down the dark future, through long generations, the echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease. And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, Peace. Peace, and no longer from its brazen portals the blast of war's great organ shakes the skies. But beautiful as songs of the immortals, the holy melodies of love arise.

3 The Bells 3:31

The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe. Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells, what a world of merriment their melody foretells, how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night, while the stars that over-sprinkle all the heavens seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme to the tintinnabulation that so musically swells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells, what a world of happiness their harmony foretells, through the balmy air of night, how they ring out their delight, from the molten golden notes, and all in tune what a liquid ditty floats to the turtle dove that listens while she gloats on the moon, Oh, from out the sounding cells, what a gush of euphony voluminously dwells!

How it swells, how it dwells, on the future, how it tells, of the rapture that impels, to the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. Hear the loud alarm bells, brazen bells, what a tale of terror now their turbulently tells! In the startled ear of night, how they scream out their affright. Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek out of tune, in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad expostulation with a deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire and a resolute endeavor now, now to sit or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of despair, how they clang and clash and roar, what a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air, yet the ear it fully knows, by the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows, yet the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, and the The clamor and the clangor of the bells. Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells, What a world of solemn thought their melody compels. In the silence of the night how we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone.

For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan, and the people, ah, the people, they that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling in that muffled monotone, fill glory and soul rolling on the human heart of stone. They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human, they are ghouls. And there King it is who tolls, and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, a paean from the bells, and his merry bosom swells with the paean of the bells, and he dances and he yells, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme to the paean of the bells, of the bells, keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme to the throbbing of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, to the sobbing of the bells, keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells, in a happy runic rhyme.

Rhyme, to the rolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

4 Between the Lines 9:30

Between the Lines by Wilfred Wilson Gibson. Read for LibriVox.org by Tricia G. When consciousness came back, he found he lay between the opposing fires, but could not tell on which hand were his friends, and either way, for him to turn was Chansey, Bullet and Shell, whistling and shrieking over him as the glare of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day. He scrambled to his hands and knees a-scare, dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay, and tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped at random in a turnip-field between the unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped through that unending battle of unseen Deadlocked, league-stretching armies, and quite spent, he rolled upon his back within the pit, and lay secure, thinking of all it meant.

His lying in that little hole sore hit, but living, while across the starry sky, shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead. Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie among the Belgian turnips, while his bed, If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night, fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair, and slipped his clothes off in the candle-light, too tired to fold them neatly in a chair, the way his mother'd taught him, too dog-tired, after the long day's serving in the shop, inquiring what each customer required, politely talking whether fit to drop. And now, for fourteen days and nights at least, he hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain in muddy trenches, napping like a beast, with one eye open under sun and rain, and that unceasing hell-fire.

It was strange how things turned out, the chances. You'd just got to take your luck in life. You couldn't change your luck. And so here he was lying shot, who just six months ago had thought to spend his days behind a counter, still, perhaps—and now God only knew how he would end. He'd like to know how many of the chaps had won back to the trench alive when he had fallen wounded and been left for dead, if any. This was different, certainly, from selling knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape day in day out, and answering, "'Have you gots?' Do you keeps, till there seemed no escape, from everlasting serving in a shop, inquiring what each customer required, politely talking whether, fit to drop, with swollen ankles, tired?

But he was tired, now. Every bone was aching, and had ached, for fourteen days and nights in that wet trench. Just duller when he slept than when he waked. Crouching for shelter from the steady drench of shell and shrapnel. That old trench, it seemed, almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed, and sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed, and shells went whining, harmless overhead. Harmless, at least, as far as he—but Dick! Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, at breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick, eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, and brought them butter in a lordly dish. Butter enough for all, and held it high, yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish.

When plump upon the plate from out the sky, a shell fell bursting. Where the butter went, God only knew, and Dick— He dared not think of what had come to Dick, or what it meant. The shrieking and the whistling and the stink he'd lived in 14 days and nights. Twas luck that he still lived, and queer how little then he seemed to care that Dick, perhaps Twas pluck that hardened him, a man among the men, perhaps, Yet only think things out a bit, and he was rabbit-livered blue with funk. And he liked Dick, and yet when Dick was hit, he hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk, he should have thought would feel it when his mate was blown to smithereens, Dick, proud as punch, grinning like sin, and holding up the plate.

But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. Perhaps Twas just because he dared not let his mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum. He dared not now, though he could not forget. Dick took his luck, and, life or death, Twas luck, from first to last, and you'd just got to trust your luck in grin, It wasn't so much pluck as knowing that you'd got to when needs must, and better to die grinning. Quiet now had fallen on the night. On either hand, the guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow, the quiet darkness brooded as he scanned the starry sky. He'd never seen before so many stars, although of course he'd known That there were stars, somehow, before the war, he'd never realized them, so thick-sewn, millions and millions.

Serving in the shop, stars didn't count for much, and then at nights, strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, you didn't see much but the city lights. He'd never in his life seen so much sky as he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer, the things war taught you. He'd a mind to try, to count the stars. They shone so bright and clear. One, two, three, four. Ah, God, but he was tired. Five, six, seven, eight. Yes, it was number eight. And what was the next thing that she required? Too bad of customers to come so late, at closing time. Again within the shop, he handled knots of tape and reels of thread, politely talking weather fit to drop. When once again the whole sky overhead flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell and scream of shrapnel roused him, drowsily, he stared about him wondering, then he fell into deep dreamless slumber.

He could see, two dark eyes peeping at him ere he knew he was awake, and it again was day, an August morning burning to clear blue. The frightened rabbit scuttled. Far away a sound of firing, up there in the sky, big dragonflies hung hovering, snowballs burst about them, flies and snowballs. With a cry, he crouched to watch the airmen pass, the first that he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck! Shells bursting all about them, and what nerve! They took their chance and trusted to their luck. At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, dodging the shell-fire. Hell, but one was hit, and tumbling like a pigeon plump! Thank heaven! It righted and then turned, and after it, the whole flock followed safe.

Four, five, six, seven—yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they'd win, back to their lines in safety. They deserved, even if they were Germans. Twas no sin, to wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved, just in the nick of time. He, too, must try to win back to the lines, though likely as not. He'd take the wrong turn. But he couldn't lie forever in that hungry hole and rot. He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance, of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be, with any luck in Germany or France, or kingdom come next morning. Drearily, the blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell, whistling and whining ceaselessly, but light faded at last, and as the darkness fell, he rose and crawled away into the night.

5 The Blue Ridge 0:52

6 The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and Tongs 2:01

7 The Death of the Hired Man 7:59

The Death of the Hired Man by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp.

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table, waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, she ran on tiptoe down the darkened passage to meet him in the doorway with the news and put him on his guard. Silas is back. She pushed him outward with her through the door and shut it after her. Be kind, she said. She took the market things from Warren's arms and set them on the porch, then drew him down to sit beside her on the wooden steps. One was I ever anything but kind to him. But I'll not have the fellow back, he said. I told him so last haying, didn't I? If he left then, I said, that ended it. What good is he? Who else will harbour him at his age for the little he can do? What help he is there's no depending on.

Off he goes, always when I need him most. He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, enough at least to buy tobacco with, so he won't have to beg and be beholden. All right, I say. I can't afford to pay any fixed wages, though I wish I could. Someone else can? Then someone else will have to. I shouldn't mind his bettering himself, if that's what it was. You can be certain when he begins like that there's someone at him trying to coax him off with pocket money and haying time when any help is scarce. In winter he comes back to us. I'm done. Shh! Not so loud. He'll hear you, Mary said. I want him to. He'll have to, soon or late. He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove. When I came up from Rose, I found him here, huddled against the barn door, fast asleep, a miserable sight, and frightening, too.

You needn't smile. I didn't recognize him. I wasn't looking for him, and he's changed. Wait till you see. Where did you say he'd been? He didn't say. I dragged him to the house and gave him tea and tried to make him smoke. I tried to make him talk about his travels. Nothing would do. He just kept nodding off. What did he say? Did he say anything? But little. Anything? Mary, confess he said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me. Warren. But did he? I just want to know. Of course he did. What would you have him say? Surely you wouldn't begrudge the poor old man some humble way to save his self-respect. He added, if you really care to know, he meant to clear the upper pasture, too. That sounds like something you have heard before.

Warren, I wish you could have heard the way he jumbled everything. I stopped to look to her three times—he made me feel so queer—to see if he was talking in his sleep. He ran on Harold Wilson, you remember, the boy you had in haying four years since. He's finished school and teaching in his college. Silas declares you'll have to get him back. He says they two will make a team for work. Between them, they will lay this farm as smooth. The way he mixed that in with other things, he thinks young Wilson's a likely lad, though daft on education. You know how they fought all through July under the blazing sun. Silas up on the cart to build the load. Harold along beside to pitch it on. Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.

For those days trouble, Silas, like a dream. You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger. Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him. After so many years, he still keeps finding good arguments he sees he might have used. I sympathize. I know just how it feels to think of the right thing to say, too late. Harold's associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying he studied Latin like the violin, because he liked it. That an argument. He said he couldn't make the boy believe he could find water with a hazel prong, which showed how much good school had ever done him. He wanted to go over that, but most of all, he thinks if he could have another chance to teach him how to build a load of hay.

I know. That's Silas' one accomplishment. He bundles every forkful in his place, and tags and numbers it for future reference so he can find it and easily dislodge it in the unloading. Silas does that well. He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests. You never see him standing on the hay he's trying to lift, straining to lift himself. He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be some good, perhaps, to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, and nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope. So now, and never any different. Part of a moon was falling down the west, dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.

Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw and spread her apron to it. She put out her hand among the harp-like morning-glory strings taut with the dew from garden-bed to eaves, as if she played unheard the tenderness that wrought on him beside her in the night. "'Warren,' she said, "'he has come home to die. You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.' Home," he mocked gently. Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he's nothing to us, and he more than was the hound that came a stranger to us out of the woods, worn upon the trail. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. I should have called it something you somehow haven't to deserve.

Warren leaned out and took a step or two, picked up a little stick and brought it back, and broke it in his hand and tossed it by. Silas has better claim on us, you think, than on his brother. Thirteen little miles as the road winds would bring him to his door. Silas has walked that far, no doubt, today. Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich, a somebody, director in the bank. He never told us that. We know it, though. I think his brother ought to help, of course. I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right to take him in, and might be willing to. He may be better than appearances. But have some pity on Silas. Do you think if he'd had any pride in claiming kin, or anything he looked for from his brother, he'd kept so still about him all this time?

I wonder what's between them. I can tell you. Silas is what he is. We wouldn't mind him. But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide. He never did a thing so very bad. He don't know why he isn't quite as good as anyone. He won't be made ashamed to please his brother, worthless though he is. I can't think Si ever hurt anyone. No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay and rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair back. He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge. You must go in and see what you can do. I made the bed up for him there to-night. You'll be surprised at him, how much he's broken. His working days are done, I'm sure of it. I'd not be in a hurry to say that. I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.

But Warren, please remember how it is. He's come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may. I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud will hit or miss the moon. It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row—the moon, the little silver cloud, and she. Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her—sliped to her side, cut up her hand, and waited. Warren? she questioned. Dead, was all he answered.

8 The Effect 1:23

9 English Sonnet XVII 1:28

10 First Fig 0:34

11 Flannan Isle 5:09

Flannan Isle, though three men dwell on Flannan Isle to keep the lamp alight, as we steered under the lee we caught no glimmer through the night. A passing ship at dawn had brought the news, and quickly we set sail to find out what strange thing might ail the keepers of the deep-sea light. The winter day broke blue and bright, with glancing sun and glancing spray, as o'er the swell our boat made way, as gallant as a gull in flight. But as we neared the lonely isle, and looked up at the naked height, and saw the lighthouse towering white, with blinded lantern, that all night, Had never shot a spark of comfort through the dark. So ghostly in the cold sunlight it seemed that we were struck the while with wonder all too dread for words.

And, as into the tiny creek we stole beneath the hanging crag, we saw three queer, black, ugly birds, too big by far, in my belief, for guillemot or shag, like seamen sitting bolt upright upon a half-tide reef. But as we neared, they plunged from sight without a sound or spurt of white. And still too mazed to speak, we landed and made fast the boat, and climbed the track in single file, each wishing he was safe afloat on any sea however far, so it be far from Flannan Isle. And still we seemed to climb and climb, as though we'd lost all count of time, and so must climb for evermore. Yet, all too soon, we reached the door, the black sun-blistered lighthouse door, that gaped for us ajar. As, on the threshold for a spell, we paused, we seemed to breathe the smell of lime-wash and of tar, Familiar as our daily breath, as though twere some strange scent of death.

And so, yet wondering, side by side, we stood a moment still tongue-tied, and each with black foreboding eyed the door, ere we should fling it wide, to leave the sunlight for the gloom, till, plucking courage up at last, hard on each other's heels we passed into the living room. Yet, as we crowded through the door, We only saw a table spread for dinner, meat and cheese and bread, but all untouched, and no one there, as though when they sat down to eat, ere they could even taste, alarm had come, and they in haste had risen and left the bread and meat, for at the table-head a chair lay tumbled on the floor. We listened. But we only heard the feeble cheaping of a bird that starved upon its perch, and, listening still, without a word, we set about our hopeless search.

We hunted high, we hunted low, and soon ransacked the empty house, then o'er the island, to and fro, we ranged to listen and to look in every cranny, cleft or nook, that might have hid a bird or mouse. But, though we searched from shore to shore, we found no sign in any place, and soon again stood face to face before the gaping door, and stole into the room once more as frightened children steal. Ay, though we hunted high and low, and hunted everywhere, Of the three men's fate we found no trace, of any kind in any place, but a door ajar, and an untouched meal, and an overtoppled chair. And, as we listened in the gloom of that forsaken living-room, a chill clutch on our breath, we thought how ill chance came to all who kept the Flannan light, and how the rock had been the death of many a likely lad, How six had come to a sudden end, and three had gone stark mad, and one whom we'd all known as friend had leapt from the lantern one still night, and fallen dead by the lighthouse wall, and long we thought on the three we sought, and of what might yet befall.

Like curs a glance has brought to heel, we listened flinching there, And looked and looked on the untouched meal and the over-toppled chair. We seemed to stand for an endless while, though still no word was said, Three men alive on Flannan Isle, who thought on three men dead.

12 Flash Crimson 1:51

13 For a Picture of St. Dorothea 1:38

14 Heaven-Haven 0:48

15 How Sweet I Roamed from Field to Field 1:00

16 I'm Wife 0:47

17 Insomnia 1:42

18 Jabberwocky 2:08

19 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 2:35

20 The Lie 2:43

The Lie by Sir Walter Raleigh.

Go, soul, the body's guest, upon a thankless arrant. Fear not to touch the best. The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, and give the world the lie. Say to the court it glows and shines like rotten wood. Say to the church it shows what's good and doth no good. If church and court reply, then give them both the lie. Tell potentates they live, acting by another's action, not loved unless they give, not strong but by affection. If potentates reply, give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition that manage the estate, their purpose is ambition, their practice only hate, and if they once reply, they give them all the lie. Tell them that brave at most, they beg for more by spending, who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending, and if they make reply, then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion, tell love it is but lust, tell time it is but motion, tell flesh it is but dust, and wish them not reply, for thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth, tell honour how it alters, tell beauty how she blasteth, tell favour how it falters, and as they shall reply, give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles, and tickle points of niceness. Tell wisdom she entangles, herself an overwiseness, and when they do reply, straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness, tell skill it is pretension, tell charity of coldness, tell law it is contention, and as they do reply, so give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness, tell nature of decay, tell friendship of unkindness, tell justice of delay, and if they will reply, then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness, but vary by esteeming. Tell schools they want profoundness, and stand too much on seeming. If arts and school reply, give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country airth, Tell manhood shakes off pity, Tell virtue least preferreth, And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I, Commandedly done blabbing, Although to give the lie deserves no less than stabbing, Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.

21 Little Boy Blue 1:11

22 Mending Wall 2:28

Mending Wall by Robert Frost.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, that sends the frozen ground swell under it, and spills the upper boulders in the sun, and makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing. I have come after them and made repair where they have left not one stone on a stone, but they would have the rabbit out of hiding to please the helping dogs. The gaps, I mean. No one has seen them made, or heard them made. But at spring mending time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill, and on a day we meet to walk the line and set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves, and some so nearly balls we have to use a spell to make them balance.

Stay where you are until our backs are turned. We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, one on a side. It comes to little more. There, where it is, we do not need the wall. He is all pine, and I am apple-orchard. My apple-trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "'Good fences. Make good neighbors.'" Spring is the mischief in me, and I wondered if I could put a notion in his head. Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall, I'd asked to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give a fence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, that wants it down.

I could say elves to him, but it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather he said it for himself. I see him there, bringing a stone, grasped firmly by the top in each hand, like an old stone savage armed. He moves in darkness, as it seems to me, not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father, saying, And he likes having thought of it so well, he says again, "'Good fences.

23 The Mermaid's Glass 7:08

The Mermaid's Glass.

T'was down among the thimble isles that strew for many liquid miles. The waters of Long Island Sound, our yacht lay in a co around. The rocky isles with cedar's green, And channels winding in between. And here a low black reef was bred, and there a sunken niggerhead dimpled the surface of the tide. From one tall island's cliffy side, we heard the shaggy goats that fed, the gulls wheel screaming overhead, or settled in a snowy flock far out upon the lonely rock, which like a pillar seemed to show Some drowned Acropolis below. Meanwhile, in the warm sea-about, with many a plunge and jolly shout, our crew enjoyed their morning bath. The hairy skipper, in his wrath, lay cursing on the gunwale's rim.

He loved a dip, but could not swim. So now and then, with plank afloat, he'd struggle feebly round the boat. And o'er the side climb puffing in, scraping wide areas off his skin. Then lie and sun each hirsute limp, once more upon the gunwale's rim, and shout with curses unawailing, Come out! There's wind! Let's do some sailing!

A palm-leaf hat that here and there, bobbed on the water, showed him where, Some venturous swimmer outward bound escaped beyond his voice's sound. All heedless of their skipper's call, one group fought for the upset yawl. The conqueror sat astride the keel, and deftly pounded with his heel. The hands that clutched his citadel, which showed at distance like the shell, round which unseen the naiad train, Sport naked on the middle main. Myself had drifted far away, meanwhile from where the sailboat lay, till all unbroken I could hear the wave's low whisper in my ear. And at the level of mine eye the blue vibration met the sky. Sometimes upon my back I lay and watched the clouds While I and they were wafted effortless along.

Sudden I seemed to hear a song, yet not a song, but some weird strain, as though the inarticulate main had found a voice whose human tone interpreted its own dull moan, its foamy hiss, its surfy roar, Its gentle lapping on the shore, its noise of subterranean waves that grumble in the sea-cliff caves, its swish among the drifting miles of gulfweed from the Indian Isles. All, all the harmonies were there, which ocean makes with earth or air. Turning, I saw a sunken ledge, Bared by the ebb along whose edge the matted sea-weed dripped thereon, betwixt the dazzle of the sun and the blue shimmer of the sea, I saw, or else I seemed to see, a mermaid crooning a wild song, combing with arm uplifted long the hair that shed its meshes black down the sloped whiteness of her back.

She held a mirror in her hand, wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land, her beauty's background and its frame. But now, as toward the rock I came, all suddenly across the glass some startling image seemed to pass, for her song rose into a scream, over her shoulders one swift gleam, Of ice unearthly fell on me, and, twixt the flashing of the sea and the blind dazzle of the sun, I saw the rock, but thereupon she sat no longer gainst the blue. Only across the reef there flew one snow-white turn and vanished too, but coasting that lone island round Among the slippery kelp I found a little oval glass that lay, upturned and flashing in the ray of the down-looking sun thereto. With scarce believing eyes I drew, and took it captive.

A while there I rested in the mermaid's lair, and felt the merry breeze that blew, and watched the sharpies as they flew. And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine, and basked me in the sun's warm shine. Then with my prize I made my way, once more to where the sailboat lay. I kept the secret and the glass. By day, across its surface pass the transient shapes of common things which chance within its oval brings. But when at night I strive to sound the darkness of its face profound, again I seem to hear the breeze that curls the waves on summer seas. I see the isles with cedars green, the channels winding in between, the coves with beaches of white sand, The reefs where warning spindles stand, and through the multitudinous shimmer of waves and sun again the glimmer of ice unearthly falls on me, deep with the mystery of the sea.

24 My Last Duchess 2:58

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. I call that piece a wonder now. Frau Pandoff's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands. Would please you sit and look at her? I said, Frau Pandoff, by design, for never read strangers like you that pictured countenance, the depth and passion of its earnest glance. But to myself they turned, since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you but I, and seemed as they would ask me if they durst how such a glance came there. So, not the first are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, it was not her husband's presence only called that spot of joy into the Duchess's cheek. Perhaps Frau Pandoff chanced to say— Her mantle laps over my lady's wrists too much, or paint must never hope to reproduce the faint half-flush that dies along her throat.

Such stuff was courtesy, she thought, and calls enough for calling up that spot of joy. She had a heart, how shall I say, too soon made glad, too easily impressed. She liked whate'er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, it was all one. My favorite at her breast, the drooping of the daylight in the west, the bough of cherries some officious fool broke in the orchard for her, the white mule she rode with round the terrace, all and each would draw from her alike the approving speech or blush at least. She thanked men, good, but thanked somehow, I know not how, as if she ranked my gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name with anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? Even had you skill in speech, which I have not, to make your will quite clear to such an one, and say, Just this or that in you disgust me, ere you miss, or there exceed the mark.

And if she let herself be lessened so, nor plainly set her wits to yours forsooth, and made excuse, e'en that would be some stooping, and I choose never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, whene'er I passed her. But who passed without much the same smile? This grew. I gave commands. Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands, as if alive. What please you rise? We'll meet the company below, then. I repeat, the Count your master's non-munificence is ample warrant that no just pretense of mine for dowry will be disallowed, though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed at starting, is my object. They will go together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, which claws of Innsbruck cast in bronze from me.

25 Of One Self-Slain 0:45

26 On His Deceased Wife 1:17

27 On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci 2:33

28 On Time 1:42

29 Philomela 1:43

30 Raven 9:23

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor,' I muttered. Tapping at my chamber door. Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember. It was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, from my books surcease of sorrow, Sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating, then no longer. "'Sir,' said I, or madam, "'truly your forgiveness I implore.' But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. And so faintly. You came tapping, tapping, at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wandering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the— Starkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore. This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore. Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, Surely that is something at my window, Lattice. Let me see, then, what there at us, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. Tis the wind, and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he. Not a minute stopped or stayed he, but with mien of Lord or Lady, perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace, just above my chamber door, perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, Thou, I said, art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what that lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore. Quote the raven, Nevermore.

Much I marveled this ungainly, foul to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing. that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing Bird above his chamber door, Bird or Beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as Nevermore.

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered Not a feather. Then he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered, Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, Nevermore. Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken, Doubtless, said I, what it utters is only stock in store. Caught from some unhappy master, Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster Till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his hope That melancholy burden bore Of never, nevermore.

But the raven, still beguiling, All my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat In front of bird, and bust, and door, Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking, fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking nevermore.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er she shall press, ah, nevermore.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite, and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore. Quote the raven, nevermore. Prophet, said I, thing of evil, prophet still. If bird or devil, whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by horror haunted, tell me, truly, I implore, Is there, is there balm in Gilead? Tell me, tell me, I implore. Quoth the raven, nevermore.

Prophet, said I. Think of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil. By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore. Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore. Quote the raven, Nevermore.

Be that word our sign of parting, Bird or fiend, I shrieked upstarting. Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart. And take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven, nevermore.

And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, Just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming, The rosy shadow on the floor, and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.

31 Rose Pogonias 1:08

32 Sally Simpkin's Lament: or John Jones's Kit-cat-astrophe 2:26

33 Times Go By Turns 1:49

34 To an Oak at Newstead 2:18

To an Oak at Newstead, by George Gordon, Lord Byron.

Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine, that thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, and ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years, on the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride. They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears. Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my oak, and since that fatal hour a stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, till manhood shall crown me not mine as the power, but his whose neglect may have bade thee expire. O hearty thou wert, even now little care, might revive thy young head and thy wounds gently heal, but thou wert not fated affection to share, for who could suppose that a stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my oak! Lift thy head for a while. Ere twice round yon glory this planet shall run, the hand of thy master will teach thee to smile, when infancy's years of probation are done. O live then, my oak, tower aloft from the weeds, that clog thy young growth and assist thy decay, for still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, and still may thy branches their beauty display. O yet, if maturity's years may be thine, though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time o'er the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave, O'er the course of thy lord in thy canopy laid, While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave.

The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh, surely by these I shall ne'er be forgot. Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of eternity's day.

35 The Village Blacksmith 2:57

36 Where The Mind Is Without Fear 1:00

queue_music Chapters 36