Chapters 25
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1 01 - Sonnet VI: Bluebeard 1:41
Sonnet Six Bluebeard by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Shakira Searle This door you might not open, and you did. So enter now, and see for what slight thing you are betrayed. Here is no treasure hid, no cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring the sought-for truth, no heads of women slain for greed like yours, no writhings of distress, but only what you see. Look, yet again, an empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. Yet this alone out of my life I kept unto myself, lest any know me quite. And you did so profane me when you crept unto the threshold of this room tonight, that I must never more behold your face. This now is yours. I seek. Another place.
End of poll.
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2 02 - The Corpse 2:15
The Corpse by Charles Baudelaire. Remember, my beloved, what thing we met by the roadside on that sweet summer day? There on the grassy couch with pebbles set, a loathsome body lay. The wanton limbs stiff stretched into the air, steaming with exultations vile and dark, in ruthless cynic fashion had laid bare the swollen side and flank. On this decay, the sun shone hot from heaven, as though with chemic heat to broil and burn, and unto nature all that she had given a hundredfold return. The sky smiled down upon the whore there, as on a flower that opens to the day. So awful an infection smote the air almost you swooned away. The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream that ran along these tatters of life's pride With a liquescent gleam.
And like a wave, the maggots rose and fell. The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife. It seemed as though a vague breath came to swell and multiply with life the hideous corpse. From all this living world, a music as of wind and water ran, or as of grain in rhythmic motion swirled by the swift winnower's fan. And then the vague forms like a dream died out, or like some distant scene that slowly falls upon the artist's canvas that with doubt he only half recalls. A homeless dog behind the boulders lay and watched us both with angry eyes forlorn, waiting a chance to come and take away the morsel she had torn. And you, even you, will be like this drear thing, a vile infection man may not endure.
Star that I yearn to, sun that lights my spring, O passionate and pure, Yes, such will you be, Queen of every grace, when the last sacramental words are said, and beneath grass and flowers that lovely face moulders among the dead. Then, O beloved, whisper to the worm that crawls up to devour you with a kiss that I still guard in memory the dear form of love that comes to this.
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3 03 - The Enduring 1:51
If in the cold with weary throats they vainly strove to sing, Winter Would be eternal. Leaf and bush and blossom, would never once more riot in the spring.
If remembrance ended, when life and love are gathered, if the world were not living, long after one is gone, song would not ring. Nor sorrow stand at the door in evening. Life would vanish and slacken. Men would be changed to stone.
But there will be autumn's bounty dropping upon our weariness. There will be hopes unspoken and joys to haunt us still. There will be dawn and sunset, though we have cast the world away, and the leaves dancing over the hill.
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4 04 - The Flaming Heart 6:23
The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart The Flaming Heart That is a seraphim, they say, and this the great teresae.
Readers, be ruled by me, and make here a well-placed and wise mistake. You must transpose the picture quite, and spell it wrong, to read it right. Read him for her, and her for him, and call the saint the seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand to put her dart into his hand? See, even the years and size of him shows this the mother seraphim. This is the mistress flame, and duteous he, her happy fireworks here comes down to see. Oh, most poor spirited of men, had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen, thou couldst not so unkindly err to show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame, and mocks with female frost, loves manly flame. One would suspect thou ment'st to paint some weak inferior woman saint.
But had thy pale-face purple took fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, thou wouldst on her have heaped up all that could be found seraphical. Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair, rosie fingers, radiant hair, glowing cheek and glistring wings, all those fair and flagrant things, but before all that fiery dart had fill'd the hand of this great art. Do then as equal right requires, since his the blushes be and hers the fires, resume and rectify thy rude design, undress thy seraphim into mine. Redeem this injury of thy heart. Give him the veil, give her the dart. Give him the veil, that he may cover the red cheeks of a rival'd lover. Ashamed, that our world now can shew nests of new seraphims here below.
Give her the dart, for it is she, fair youth, who shoots both thy shaft and thee. Say, all ye wise and well pierc'd hearts that live and die amidst her darts, what is't your tasteful spirits to prove in that rare life of her and Louvre? Say, and bear witness, send she not a seraphim at every shot? What magazines of immortal arms there shine? Heaven's great artillery in each love spun line. Give then the dart to her who gives the flame. give him the veil who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate of worst faults to be fortunate, if alls prescription and proud wrong harkens not to an humble song, for all the gallantry of him give me the suffering seraphim. His be the bravery of all those bright things, the glowing cheeks, the glistering wings, the rosie hand, the radiant dart, Leave her alone, the flaming heart.
Leave her that, and thou shalt leave her not one loose shaft, but love's whole quiver. For in love's field was never found a nobler weapon than a wound. Love's passives are his active's part. The wounded is the wounding heart. O heart, the equal poise of love's both parts, Big alike with wounds and darts. Live in these conquering leaves. Live all the same, and walk through all tongues, one triumphant flame. Live here, great heart, and love, and die, and kill, and bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still. Let this immortal life, where'er it comes, walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms. Let mystic Deaths wait on't, and wise souls be the love's slain witnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary, show here thy art upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart.
Let all thy scattered shafts of light that play among the leaves of thy large books of day, combined against this breast, at once break in and take away from me myself. and sin, this gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, and my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. O thou undaunted daughter of desires, by all thy dower of lights and fires, by all the eagle in thee, all the dove, by all thy lives and deaths of love, by thy large draught, of intellectual day, and by thy thirsts of love more large than they, by all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire, by thy last morning's draught of liquid fire, by the full kingdom of that final kiss that seized thy parting soul and seal'd thee his, by all the heavens thou hast in him, fair sister of the seraphim.
By all of him. We have in thee, leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I unto all life of mine may die.
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5 05 - In the Desert 0:50
In the Desert by Stephen Crane. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp.
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, who, squatting upon the ground, held his heart in his hands and ate of it. I said, Is it good, friend? It is bitter, bitter. He answered. But I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart.
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6 06 - In The Study 1:08
In the Study by Thomas Hardy. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair, sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there, a type of decayed gentility, and by some small signs he well can guess that she comes to him almost breakfastless. I have called, I hope I do not err. I am looking for a purchaser of some score volumes of the works of eminent divines I own. Left by my father, though it irks my patience to offer them. And she smiles as if necessity were unknown. But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles I have wished, as I am fond of art, to make my rooms a little smart. And lightly still she laughs to him, as if to sell were a mere gay whim. And that, to be frank, life were indeed to her not vinegar and gall, but fresh and honey-like, and need no household skeleton at all.
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7 07 - Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood 9:51
Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.
Read for LibriVox.org by Ed Humple.
The child is father of the man, and I wish my days to be bound each to each by natural piety.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, the earth and every common sight, to me did seem apparelled in celestial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore. Turn, wheresoever I may, by night or day, the things which I have seen, I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, and lovely is the rose. The moon doth with delight look round her when the heavens are bare. Waters on a starry night are beautiful and fair. The sunshine is a glorious birth, but yet I know, where'er I go, that there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, and while the young lambs bound as to the taber's sound, to me alone there came a thought of grief. A timely utterance gave that thought relief, and I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, no more shall grief of mine the season wrung. I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, the winds come to me from the fields of sleep, and all the earth is gay. Land and sea give themselves up to jollity, and with the heart of May doth every beast keep holiday, thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy. Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call ye to each other make. I see the heavens laugh in you in your jubilee.
My heart is at your festival, my head hath its coronal. The fullness of your bliss I feel, I feel it all. O evil day, if I were sullen, while the earth herself is adorning, this sweet May morning. And the children are culling on every side, in a thousand valleys, far and wide, fresh flowers, while the sun shines warm, and the babe leaps up on his mother's arm. I hear, I hear with joy, I hear. But there's a tree, of many one, a single field, which I have looked upon. Both of them speak of something that is gone. The pansy at my feet doth the same tale repeat. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory in the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep in a forgetting. The soul that rises with us, our life-star, hath had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory, do we come from God, who is our home. Heaven, lies about us in our infancy. Shades of the prison house begin to close upon the growing boy, but he beholds the light, and whence it flows, he sees it in his joy. The youth, who daily farther from the east must travel, still is nature's priest, and by the vision splendid is on his way attended. At length the man perceives it die away, and fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own, yearning she hath in her own natural kind, and, even with something of a mother's mind, and no unworthy aim, the homely nurse doth all she can to make her foster-child, her inmate man, forget the glories he hath known, and that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the child with his new-born blisses, a six-year darling of a pygmy size. See where mid work of his own hand he lies, fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, with light upon him from his father's eyes. See at his feet some little plan or chart, some fragment from his dream of human life, shaped by himself with newly learned art, a wedding, or a festival, a mourning, or a funeral, and this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song. Then will he fit his tongue to dialogues of business, love, or strife. But it will not be long, ere this be thrown aside with new joy and pride, the little actor cons another part, filling from time to time his humorous stage, and all the persons down to palsied age that life brings with her in her equipage, as if his whole vocation were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie thy soul's immensity, Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep thy heritage, Thou eye among the blind, that deaf and silent readest the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind. Mighty prophet, seer blessed, on whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave. Thou, over whom thy immortality broods like the day, a master or a slave, a presence which is not to be put by, to whom the grave is but a lonely bed, without the sense or sight of day or the warm light, a place of thought, where we in waiting lie. Thou little child, yet glorious in the might of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height.
Why, with such earnest pains, dost thou provoke the years to bring the inevitable yoke thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, and custom lie upon thee with a weight heavy as frost, and deep almost as life.
O joy, that in our embers is something that doth live, that nature yet remembers what was so fugitive. The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benediction. Not indeed for that which is most worthy to be blessed, delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood, whether busy or at rest, with new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast, not for these I raise the song of thanks and praise, but for those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things, fallings from us, Vanishings, blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our mortal nature did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. But for those first affections, those shadowy recollections, which, be they what they may, are yet the fountain light of all our day, are yet a master light of all our seeing.
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make our noisy years see moments in the being of the eternal silence. Truths that wake to perish never, which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, nor man, nor boy, nor all that is at enmity with joy, can utterly abolish or destroy. Hence, in a season of calm weather, though inland far we be, our souls have sight of that immortal sea which brought us hither, can in a moment Travel thither, and see the children sport upon the shore, and hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song, and let the young lambs bound as to the tabers sound. We in thought will join your throng, ye that pipe and ye that play, ye that through the hearts today feel the gladness of the May. What though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind, in the primal sympathy which having been must ever be, in the soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering, in the faith that looks through death in years.
And O ye meadows, fountains, hills, and groves, forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might. I only have relinquished one delight to live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down the channels fret, even more than when I tripped lightly as they. The innocent brightness of a newborn day is lovely yet. The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality. Another race hath been, and other palms are one. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give, thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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8 08 - Kaare's Song 2:48
Cary's Song by Bjornstein Martinius Bjornsson by his historical drama Sigurd Slembe. Translated by Norwegian into English by Arthur Hubbell Palmer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This poem has been read by Rosling Carlyle.
Introduction to Carrey's Song Helga was the daughter of Madad, a prominent and wealthy man at Catehane's. She came to Orkney, where the ruler, how con Earl, fell in love with her, and met her as mistress. She bore him a son, her old, and lived in Orkney, sixteen year, in spite of the hate and disdain shown her by so many, especially by the Earl's lawful wife. She and her sister, Frey Carg, Exerting an evil influence over Hachon Earl, inciting him among our things to murder his co-ruler and kinsman, Magnus Erlundsen. It was believed that Hachon Earl became crazy when he first seen Helga. This song, which Cary, one of the Earl's men sings, describes this first meeting and was commonly sung by Helga's enemies.
Cary's Song What wakens the bellows while sleeps the wind? What looms in the west released? What kindles the stars ere days declined like fires for day's dark feast? God aid thee here, were earl. God aid thee here, were earl. It's Helga, who come unto Orkney. What drives the fierce dragon to ride the foam? While billows with blood arrayed, the sea-fowlers shrieking, they seek their home, and hover round me head. God aid thee here, where earl, God aid thee here, where earl, it's Helga, where come on to Orkney. What maiden so strange to the strand draws now? In light with soft music nears. What is it that marks all the floors dee? What fills all your eyes with tears. God aid thee here, whereer.
God aid thee here, whereer. It's Helga, what come unto Otney.
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9 09 - Lament of the Winds 1:31
Lament of the Winds by Archibald Lampman. Read for LibriVox.org by John N. Daly. We, in sorrow coldly witting, in the bleak world sitting, sitting, by the forest near the mold, heard the summer calling, calling, through the dead leaves falling, falling, that her life grew faint and old. And we took her up and bore her, with the leaves that moaned before her, to the holy forest bowers, where the trees were dense and serried, and her corpse we buried, buried in the graveyard of the flowers. Now the leaves, as death grows vaster, yellowing deeper, dropping faster, all the grave wherein she lies, with their bodies cover, cover with their hearts, That love her, love her, for they live not when she dies.
And we left her so, but stay not of our tears, and yet we may not, though they coldly thickly fall, give the dead leaves any, any, for they lie so many, many, that we cannot weep for all.
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10 10 - We Have A Little Garden 0:41
We have a little garden, a garden of our own, and every day we water there the seeds that we have sown. We love our little garden, and tend it with such care. You will not find a faded leaf or blated Blossom there.
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11 11 - On first looking into Chapman’s Homer 1:00
On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen. Round many western islands have I been, which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told that deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne. Yet did I never breathe its pure serene till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific, and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien.
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12 12 - Lying 2:13
Lying by Thomas Moore.
I do confess in many a sigh, My lips have breathed you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay, look not thus with brow reproving, Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving. If half we tell the girls were true, if half we swear to think and do were aught but lying sprite illusion, this world would be in strange confusion. If ladies' eyes were every one, as lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy must leave the skies to learn her lore in ladies' eyes. Oh, no, believe me, lovely girl, when nature turns your teeth to pearl, your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, your amber locks to golden wire, then, only then, can heaven decree that you should live for only me, or I for you.
As night and morn we've swearing kissed and kissing sworn.
And now my gentle hints to clear, for once I'll tell you truth, my dear. Whenever you may chance to meet some loving youth whose love is sweet, long as you're false and he believes you, long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures, and while he lies, his heart is yours. But, oh, you've wholly lost the youth the instant that he tells you truth.
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13 13 - No! 2:06
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, no dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, no sky, no earthly view, no distance looking blue. No road, no street, no t'other side this way, no end to any row, no indications where the crescents go, no top to any steeple, no recognitions of familiar people, no courtesies for showing him, no knowing him, no traveling at all. No locomotion. No inkling of the way. No notion. No go, by land, or ocean. No mail. No post. No news from any foreign coast. No park. No ring. No afternoon gentility. No company. No nobility. No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, no comfortable feeling in any member. No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.
November.
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14 14 - Orkney Lullaby 1:34
The Moonbeam floateth fae the skies, whispering, Heyo, my dearie, I would spin away before the arise a beautiful web of silver light, wherein is many a wondrous sight, o a radiant garden leagues away. Where the softly tinkling lilies sway, and the snow-white lambkins is at play, Hie, O my dearie. A bruny stealeth fae the vine, singing, Hie, O my dearie. And will you hear the song o mine, a song o the land o murk and mist, where hideth the bud the dew hath kissed? Then let the moonbeams web o light be spun afore the silvery white, And I shall sing the livelong night, Heo, my dearie. The night wind speedeth fae the sea, murmuring, Heo, my dearie. I bring a mariner's prayer for thee. So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, and the bruny sing thee lullabies.
But I shall rock thee to and fro, kissing the brow he loveth so, and the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow. Heo, my dearie.
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15 15 - The Power of the Dog 2:51
The Power of the Dog by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox.org by Laura Armantrout.
There is sorrow enough in the natural way from men and women to fill our day, and when we are certain of sorrow in store, why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware. Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup, and your money will buy Love unflinching, that cannot lie Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless, it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which nature permits are closing in asthma or tumor or fits, and the vet's unspoken prescription runs to lethal chambers or loaded guns, then you will find it's your own affair, but you've given your heart to a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, with its whimper of welcome, is stilled—how still!
When the spirit that answered your every mood is gone, wherever it goes, for good, you will discover how much you care, and will give your heart to a dog to tear. We've sorrow enough in the natural way when it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, at compound interest of cent per cent. Though it is not always the case, I believe, that the longer we've kept them, the more do we grieve. For when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-term loan is as bad as a long. So why in heaven, before we are there, should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
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16 16 - Rural Bliss 2:48
Rural Bliss by Anthony Charles Dean. The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city. And so, when happiness is mine and Maud becomes my wife, we'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity. For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life. Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases the grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose, immortalize in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies, for even I can hardly be mistaken as to those. The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow and fill us with a rapture indescribable in words, and we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow. I wonder if a swallow sings, and, well, the other birds. Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures which dwellers in the country have in such abundant store.
To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures the music of the night in—oh, I mentioned that before. And shall I prune potato trees and artichokes, I wonder, and cultivate the silo plant which springs? I hope it springs. In graceful foliage overhead. Excuse me if I blunder, it's really inconvenient not to know the name of things. No matter, in the future, when I celebrate the beauty of country life in glowing terms, and build a lofty rhyme, aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty, I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time. Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated. The country life appears to me indubitably blessed, for even if its other charms are somewhat overstated, as long as Maude is there, you see, what matters all the rest?
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17 17 - She Charged Me 1:05
She charged me with having said this and that to another woman long years before, in the very parlour where we sat, sat on a night when the endless pour of rain on the roof and the road below bent the spring of the spirit more and more. So charged she me, and the cupid's bow of her mouth was hard. And her eyes, and her face, and her white forefinger lifted slow. Had she done it gently, or shown a trace That not too curiously would she view A folly past ere her reign had place, A kiss might have ended it. But I knew from the fall of each word, And the pause between, That the curtain would drop upon us two ere long In our play of slave and queen.
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18 18 - Sittin on the Porch 1:58
Sittin' on the porch, by Edgar Guest, by Leonard Wilson, of Springfield, Ohio.
Sittin' on the porch at night, when all the tasks are done, just restin' there and talkin' with my easy slippers on, and my shirt-band thrown wide open, and my feet upon the rail, Oh, it's then I'm at my richest with a wealth that cannot fail. For the scent of early roses seems to flood the evening air, and a throne of downright gladness is my wicker rocking-chair. The dog asleep beside me, and the children romping round with their shrieks of merry laughter. Oh, there is no gladder sound to the ears of weary mortals, spite of all the scoffers say, or a grander bit of music than the children at their play. And I tell myself time's over, when I'm sitting there at night, that the world in which I'm living is a place of real delight.
Then the moon begins its climbing, and the stars shine overhead, and the mother calls the children, and she takes them up to bed. And I smoke my pipe in silence, and I think of many things, and balance up my riches with the lonesomeness of kings. And I come to this conclusion, and I'll wager that I'm right, that I'm happier than they are. Sittin' on my porch at night.
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19 19 - This Living Hand 0:51
This Living Hand by John Keats. Read for LibriVox.org by Winston Tharp.
This living hand, now warm and capable of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold and in the icy silence of the tomb, so haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights, that thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood, so in my veins red life might stream again, and thou be conscience calmed. See, here it is. I hold it towards you.
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20 20 - To A Portrait 1:03
A pensive photograph watches me from the shelf, Ghost of old love, and half-ghost of myself. How the dear waiting eyes watch me and love me, Yet, sad home of memories, her waiting eyes. Ghost of old love, wronged ghost, return. Though all the pain of all once loved, long lost, come back again. Forget not, but forgive. Alas, too late, I cry. We are two ghosts that had their chance to live, and lost it, she and I.
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21 21 - Upon Westminster Bridge 1:10
Earth has not any thing to show more fair. Dull would he be of soul who could pass by, A sight so touching in its majestie. This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning silent bare. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie, Open unto the fields and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill, Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very houses seem asleep, and all that mighty heart is lying still.
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22 22 - When I Was King 9:27
When I Was King The second time I lived on earth was several hundred years ago, and, royal by my second birth, I know as much as most men know. I was a king who held the reins as never modern monarch can, I was a king, and I had brains, and, what was more, I was a man. Called to the throne in stormy times, when things were at their very worst, I had to fight, and not with rhymes, my own self and my kindred first, and after that my friends and foes and great abuses born of greed, and when I'd fairly conquered those, I ruled the land, a king indeed. I found a deal of rottenness, such as in modern towns we find. I camped my poor in palaces and tents upon the plain behind. I marked the hovel's dens and drums in that fair city by the sea, and burnt the miles of wretched slums, and built the homes as they should be.
I stripped the baubles from the state, and on the land I spent the spoil. I hunted off the sullen grate, and to the farmers gave the soil. My people were their own police. My courts were free to every one. My priests were to preach love and peace. My judges to see justice done. I'd studied men and studied kings. No crawling cant would I allow. I hated mean and paltry things, as I can hate them even now. A land of men I meant to see, a strong and clean and noble race. No subject dared kneel down to me, but looked his king straight in the face. Had I not been a king, in fact, a king in council hall and tent, I might have let them crawl and act the courtier to their heart's content. But when I called on other kings and saw men kneel, I felt inclined.
To gently tip the abject things, and kick them very hard behind. My subjects were not slaves, I guess, but though the women in one thing, a question twas of healthy dress, would dare to argue with their king, I had to give in their I own, though none denied that I was strong, yet they would hear my telephone if anything went very wrong. I also had some poets bright. Their songs were grand, I will allow. They were, if I remember right, about as bad as bards are now. I had to give them best at last, and let them booze, and let them sing. As it is now, so in the past, they'd small respect for gods or king. I loved to wander through the streets. I carried neither sword nor dirk. and watch the building of my fleets, and watch my artisans at work.
At times I would take off my coat and show them how to do a thing, till someone clucking in his throat would stare and gasp, It is the King. And I would say, Shut up, you fools! Is it for this my towns I burn? You don't know how to handle tools, and by my faith you'll have to learn. I was a king, but what of that? A king may warble in the spring, and carry eggs home in his hat, provided that he is a king. I loved to stroll about the town with chums at night, and talk of things, and though I chanced to wear the crown, my friends by intellect were kings. When I was doubtful, then I might discuss a matter quietly, but when I felt that I was right, no power on earth could alter me. And now and then it was no sin nor folly to relax a bit.
I'd take my friends into an inn, and call for wine, and pay for it. And then of many things we'd clack, with loosened tongues and vision clear. I often heard behind my back the whispered, Peace, the king is here. The women harped about a queen. I knew they longed to have a court, and flaunt their feathers on the scene. But hitherto I'd held the fort. My subjects wanted me, no doubt, to give the throne a son and heir. There were some little kings about, but that was neither here nor there. I'd no occasion for a wife. A queen as yet was not my plan. I'd seen a lot of married life. My sire had been a married man. A son and heir be hanged, I said. How dare you ask for such a thing? You fight it out when I am dead, and let the best man be the king.
Your Majesty, we love you well, a candid friend would say to me. But there be tales that people tell, unfitted to thy dignity. My dignity be damned, I'd say, bring me no women's chattering. I'll be a man while yet I may. When trouble comes, I'll be a king. I'd kept my kingdom clean and strong, while other kingdoms were like ours. I had no need to brook a wrong. I feared not all the rotten powers. I did not eat my heart out then, nor feebly fight in verse or prose. I'd take five hundred thousand men to argue matters with my foes. It thrilled me through the mighty tramp of armored men the thundering cheer The pregnant whisper through the camp, at dead of night, the King is here. And though we paid for victory on some fields that were hard to hold, the faith my soldiers had in me oft strengthened mine a hundredfold.
I'd chat with soldiers by the fires on rocky heights and river banks. I'd seek the brains that war requires and take my captains from the ranks. And so, until the storm was by, and came the peace just war can bring, I bore me so that men might cry with all their hearts, God save the king. When I was king, the world was wide, and I was strong, and I was free. I knew no hatred, knew no pride, no envy, and no treachery. I feared no lies, I feared no truth, Nor any storm that time might bring. I had my love, I had my youth. The world was mine when I was king. Peace came at last, and strangers' fate, The women begged just once alone To see me robed in royal state, And seated on my father's throne.
I thought, shall I this boon deny? And said, and twas a paltry thing. I'll show the fools just once that I can look as well as be a king. They dusted out the castle old, and from the closet and the chest, they dug the jewels set in gold, the crown and robes and all the rest. They came with eyes like stars of night, with diamonds set in raven hair. They came with arms and bosoms white, and, oh my God, but one. was fair. They dressed me as the kings had been, the ancient royal purple spread, and one that was to be my queen, she placed the circlet on my head. They pressed their hearts and bowed to me. They knelt with arms uplifted all. I felt the rush of vanity, the pride that goes before the fall.
And then the banquet and the wine. With Satan's music and the glance of siren eyes those captains mine were reeling in the maddening dance. A finger writing on the wall while girls sang as the angels sing. A drunken boaster in the hall, the fool that used to be a king.
I rose again, no matter how, a woman and a deeper fall. I move amongst my people now the most degraded of them all. But if in centuries to come I live once more and claim my own, I'll see my subjects blind and dumb before they set me on a throne.
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23 23 - When the Year Grows Old 1:53
When the Year Grows Old by Edna St. Vincent Millay Read for LibriVox.org by Shakira Searle I cannot but remember when the year grows old October, November How she disliked the cold She used to watch the swallows go down across the sky and turn from the window with a sharp little sigh. And often, when the brown leaves were brittle on the ground and the wind in the chimney made a melancholy sound, she had a look about her that I wish I could forget. The look of a scared thing sitting in a net. Oh, beautiful at nightfall the soft spitting snow, and beautiful the bare boughs rubbing to and fro, but the roaring of the fire, and the warmth of fir, and the boiling of the kettle. Were beautiful to her.
I cannot but remember When the year grows old, October, November, How she disliked the cold.
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24 24 - Whispers of immortality 2:11
Whispers of Immortality by T. S. Elliott. Read for LibriVox.org by Roslyn Carlyle. Whispers of Immortality Webster was much possessed by death, and saw the skull beneath the skin, and breastless creatures underground leaned backward, With a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of balls stared from the sockets of the eyes. He knew that thought clings round dead limbs, tightening its lusts and luxuries. Don, I suppose, was such another, who found no substitute for sense, To seize and clutch and penetrate, expert beyond experience. He knew the anguish of the marrow, the egg of the skeleton, no contact possible to flesh, allayed the fever of the bone. Grishkin is nice. Her Russian eye is underlined for emphasis.
Uncorseted, her friendly bust, gives promise of pneumatic bliss. The couched Brazilian Jaguar compels the scampering marmoset. With subtle effluence of cat, Grishkin has a maisonette. The sleek Brazilian Jaguar does not, in its arboreal gloom, distill so rank a feline smell as Grishkin in a drawing-room. And even the abstract entities, Circumambulate their charm, but our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep our metaphysics warm.
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25 25 - The Wound-Dresser 4:16
The Wound Dresser by Walt Whitman.
An old man bending, I come among new faces, years looking backward, resuming in answer to children. Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me. Aroused and angry, I thought to beat the alarm and urge relentless war. But soon my fingers failed me, and my face drooped, and I resigned myself to sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead. Here's hints of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances of unsurpassed heroes. Was one side so brave, the other was equally brave? Now be witness again. Paint the mightiest armies of Earth, of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what's all you to tell us? What stays with you, latest and deepest, of curious panics, of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?
O maidens and young men I love and that love me, what you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls. Soldier alert, I arrive after a long march covered with sweat and dust. In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge. Enter the captured works, yet low, like a swift-running river they fade. Pass and are gone they fade. I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys. Both I remember well, many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content. But in silence, in dreams projections, while the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, so soon what is over-forgotten in waves wash the imprints off the sand, with hinged knees returning I enter the doors.
While for you up there, whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart. Bearing the bandages, water, and sponge, straight and swift of my wounded I go. Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground, or the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roofed hospital. To the long rows of cots, up and down each side I return, to each and all after another I draw near. Not one do I miss. An attendant follows, holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail. Soon to be filled with clotted rags, and blood emptied and filled again. I onward go. I stop, with hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds. I am firm with each. The pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable.
One turns to me his appealing eyes. Poor boy, I never knew you. Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you. On, on I go. Open doors of time, open hospital doors. The crushed head I dress. Poor crazed hand. Tear not the bandage away. The neck of the cavalryman with the bullet through and through examine. Hard the breathing rattles. Quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard. Come, sweet Death, be persuaded, O beautiful Death. In mercy come quickly. From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand. I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood. Back on his pillow, the soldier bends with curved neck and side falling head.
His eyes are closed, his face is pale. He dares not look on the bloody stump. and has not yet looked on it. I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, but a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, and the yellow-blue countenance see. I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound, cleanse the one with a gnawing, impugnate gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, while the attendant stands behind beside me, holding the tray in pail. I am faithful. I do not give out. The fractured thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, these and more I dress with impassive hand, yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame. Thus in silence in dream's projections, returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals.
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand. I sit by the restless all the dark nights. Some are so young, some suffer so much. I recall the experience, sweet and sad. Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have crossed and rested. Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips. Thank you for listening.