Edgar Allan Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)It was many and many a year ago,       In a kingdom by the sea,   That a maiden there lived whom you may know       By the name of Annabel Lee;   And this maiden she lived with no other thought            Than to love and be loved by me.      I was a child and she was a child,       In this kingdom by the sea,   But we loved with a love that was more than love,       I and my Annabel Lee;   With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven       Coveted her and me.      And this was the reason that, long ago,       In this kingdom by the sea,   A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling     My beautiful Annabel Lee;   So that her highborn kinsmen came       And bore her away from me,   To shut her up in a sepulchre       In this kingdom by the sea.     The angels, not half so happy in heaven,       Went envying her and me;   Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,       In this kingdom by the sea)   That the wind came out of the cloud by night,      Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.      But our love it was stronger by far than the love       Of those who were older than we,       Of many far wiser than we;   And neither the angels in heaven above,      Nor the demons down under the sea,   Can ever dissever my soul from the soul       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:      For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,       In her sepulchre there by the sea,       In her tomb by the sounding sea.   Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

Edgar Allan Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

621: Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ralph Waldo Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.------------------------------------------------ The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.  Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

Ralph Waldo Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. ------------------------------------------------ The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882) Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

620. The Snow Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Rudyard Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past. ---------------------------------------------------Ifby Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

Rudyard Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- If by Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936) If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

619. If by Rudyard Kipling

Dollie Radford

Dollie Radford read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------Decemberby Dollie Radford (1858 – 1920)No gardener need go far to find    The Christmas rose,The fairest of the flowers that mark    The sweet Year's close:Nor be in quest of places where    The hollies grow,Nor seek for sacred trees that hold    The mistletoe.All kindly tended gardens love    December days,And spread their latest riches out    In winter's praise.But every gardener's work this month    Must surely beTo choose a very beautiful    Big Christmas tree,And see it through the open door    In triumph ride,To reign a glorious reign within    At Christmas-tide.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

Dollie Radford read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- December by Dollie Radford (1858 – 1920) No gardener need go far to find The Christmas rose, The fairest of the flowers that mark The sweet Year's close: Nor be in quest of places where The hollies grow, Nor seek for sacred trees that hold The mistletoe. All kindly tended gardens love December days, And spread their latest riches out In winter's praise. But every gardener's work this month Must surely be To choose a very beautiful Big Christmas tree, And see it through the open door In triumph ride, To reign a glorious reign within At Christmas-tide. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

618. December by Dollie Radford

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.--------------------------------------------The Arrow and the Songby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strongThat it can follow the flight of song?Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. -------------------------------------------- The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

617. The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

William Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------Sonnet 18by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

William Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare (1564-1616) Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

616. Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

Joaquin Miller

Joaquin Miller read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.--------------------------------------------------- For Those Who Failby Joaquin Miller (1837 – 1913)"All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and who fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears. O great is the hero who wins a name, But greater many and many a time, Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, And lets God finish the thought sublime. And great is the man with a sword undrawn, And good is the man who refrains from wine; But the man who fails and yet fights on, Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine! Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

Joaquin Miller read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- For Those Who Fail by Joaquin Miller (1837 – 1913) "All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and who fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears. O great is the hero who wins a name, But greater many and many a time, Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, And lets God finish the thought sublime. And great is the man with a sword undrawn, And good is the man who refrains from wine; But the man who fails and yet fights on, Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine! Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

615. For Those Who Fail by Joaquin Miller

Edgar Allan Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------Aloneby Edgar Allan Poe(1809 – 1849) From childhood's hour I have not beenAs others were; I have not seenAs others saw; I could not bringMy passions from a common spring.From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow; I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone;And all I loved, I loved alone.Then- in my childhood, in the dawnOf a most stormy life- was drawnFrom every depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still:From the torrent, or the fountain,From the red cliff of the mountain,From the sun that round me rolledIn its autumn tint of gold,From the lightning in the skyAs it passed me flying by,From the thunder and the storm,And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)Of a demon in my view. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

Edgar Allan Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Alone by Edgar Allan Poe(1809 – 1849) From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

614. Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

John Donne

John Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter: @classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------The Good-Morrow by John Donne (1572 – 1631)I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I   Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then?   But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly?   Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?   T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.          If ever any beauty I did see,   Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.      And now good morrow to our waking soules,   Which watch not one another out of feare;   For love, all love of other sights controules,   And makes one little roome, an every where.   Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,   Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,   Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.      My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,   And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,   Where can we finde two better hemispheares   Without sharpe North, without declining West?   What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;   If our two loves be one, or, thou and I   Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.   Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

John Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter: @classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- The Good-Morrow by John Donne (1572 – 1631) I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den? T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee. And now good morrow to our waking soules, Which watch not one another out of feare; For love, all love of other sights controules, And makes one little roome, an every where. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne, Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares, And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest, Where can we finde two better hemispheares Without sharpe North, without declining West? What ever dyes, was not mixt equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

613. The Good-Morrow by John Donne

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloudwww.classicpoetryaloud.comTwitter:@classicpoetryFacebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloudGiving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)"Hope" is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—And sings the tune without the words—And never stops—at all—And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—And sore must be the storm—That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm—I've heard it in the chillest land—And on the strangest Sea—Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumb—of Me. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

Emily Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Twitter:@classicpoetry Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/poetryaloud" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/poetryaloud</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) "Hope" is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I've heard it in the chillest land— And on the strangest Sea— Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

612. Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson

Classic Poetry Aloud gives voice to poetry through podcast recordings of the great poems of the past. Our library of poems is intended as a resource for anyone interested in reading and listening to poetry. For us, it's all about the listening, and how hearing a poem can make it more accessible, as well as heightening its emotional impact.See more at: www.classicpoetryaloud.com

and am happy to have these poems posted in between the podcasts I listen to regularly.
Thank you!

I love poetry

A Fantastic Podcast

Classic Poetry Aloud gives voice to poetry through podcast recordings of the great poems of the past. Our library of poems is intended as a resource for anyone interested in reading and listening to poetry. For us, it's all about the listening, and how hearing a poem can make it more accessible, as well as heightening its emotional impact. See more at: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a>

Classic Poetry Aloud

George Herbert

G Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------Disciplineby George Herbert (1593 – 1632)Throw away Thy rod,Throw away Thy wrath;            O my God,Take the gentle path!For my heart's desireUnto Thine is bent:            I aspireTo a full consent.Not a word or lookI affect to own,            But by book,And Thy Book alone.Though I fail, I weep;Though I halt in pace,            Yet I creepTo the throne of grace.Then let wrath remove;Love will do the deed;            For with loveStony hearts will bleed.Love is swift of foot;Love 's a man of war,            And can shoot,And can hit from far.Who can 'scape his bow?That which wrought on Thee,            Brought Thee low,Needs must work on me.Throw away Thy rod;Though man frailties hath,            Thou art God:Throw away Thy wrath!First aired: 12 August 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

G Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Discipline by George Herbert (1593 – 1632) Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; O my God, Take the gentle path! For my heart's desire Unto Thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed; For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love 's a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can 'scape his bow? That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away Thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away Thy wrath! First aired: 12 August 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

318. Discipline by George Herbert

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------The Valley of Unrestby Edgar Allan Poe  (1809 – 1849)Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visiter shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless — Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye — Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave: — from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep: — from off their delicate stemsPerennial tears descend in gems.First aired:  25 April 2009For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- The Valley of Unrest by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visiter shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless — Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye — Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave: — from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep: — from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. First aired: 25 April 2009 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

468. The Valley of Unrest by Edgar Allan Poe

E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:                http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/                                Giving voice to the poetry of the past.                                ---------------------------------------------------Because I could not stop for Death                by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)                                  Because I could not stop for Death,                  He kindly stopped for me;                  The carriage held but just ourselves                  And Immortality.                                     We slowly drove, he knew no haste,                         And I had put away                  My labor, and my leisure too,                  For his civility.                                     We passed the school where children played                  At wrestling in a ring;                         We passed the fields of gazing grain,                  We passed the setting sun.                                     We paused before a house that seemed                  A swelling of the ground;                  The roof was scarcely visible,                         The cornice but a mound.                                     Since then ’t is centuries; but each                  Feels shorter than the day                  I first surmised the horses’ heads                  Were toward eternity.  First aired: 23 September 2007For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played At wrestling in a ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then ’t is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses’ heads Were toward eternity.   First aired: 23 September 2007 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

320. Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)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. "'T is 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 for evermore.  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 "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late 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 wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 thereat is, and this mystery explore; Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:    'T is 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 Pallas 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 thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"    Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 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 then 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 its only stock and 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 fancy 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 lamp-light gloating o'er    She shall press, ah, nevermore!  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls 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, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore."    Quoth 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, "thing 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 Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"    Quoth 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 lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor    Shall be lifted—nevermore!First aired: 29 February 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) 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. "'T is 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 for evermore. 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 "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late 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 wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 thereat is, and this mystery explore; Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore: 'T is 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 Pallas 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 thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 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 then 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 its only stock and 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 fancy 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 lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls 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, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore." Quoth 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, "thing 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 Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!" Quoth 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 lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor: And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! First aired: 29 February 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

462. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud:                http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/                                Giving voice to the poetry of the past.                                ---------------------------------------------------                                 The Harlot’s House                                by Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900)                                We caught the tread of dancing feet,                We loitered down the moonlit street,                And stopped beneath the harlot's house.                                Inside, above the din and fray,                We heard the loud musicians play                The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.                                Like strange mechanical grotesques,                Making fantastic arabesques,                The shadows raced across the blind.                                We watched the ghostly dancers spin                To sound of horn and violin,                Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.                                Like wire-pulled automatons,                Slim silhouetted skeletons                Went sidling through the slow quadrille.                                They took each other by the hand,                And danced a stately saraband;                Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.                                Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed                A phantom lover to her breast,                Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- The Harlot’s House by Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900) We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot's house. Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss. Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind. We watched the ghostly dancers spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille. They took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

334. The Harlot’s House by Oscar Wilde

AE Housman

AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------Because I liked you betterby AE Housman (1859 – 1936)Because I liked you betterThan suits a man to say,It irked you, and I promisedTo throw the thought away. To put the world between usWe parted, stiff and dry;"Good-bye," said you, "forget me.""I will, no fear," said I. If here, where clover whitensThe dead man's knoll, you pass,And no tall flower to meet youStarts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone namingThe heart no longer stirred,And say the lad that loved youWas one that kept his word. First aired: 17 March 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- Because I liked you better by AE Housman (1859 – 1936) Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised To throw the thought away. To put the world between us We parted, stiff and dry; "Good-bye," said you, "forget me." "I will, no fear," said I. If here, where clover whitens The dead man's knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone naming The heart no longer stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word. First aired: 17 March 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

473. Because I Liked you Better by AE Housman

John Clare

J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:                http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/                                Giving voice to classic poetry.                                ---------------------------------------------------                                 What is Life?                                by John Clare (1793 – 1864)                                And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,                A mist retreating from the morning sun,                A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.                Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.                And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,                That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.                                And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,                That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,                And robs each flow'ret of its gem -and dies;                A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,                Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.                                And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?                That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?                A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.                And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?                Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.                                Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,                A thing to be desired it cannot be;                Since everything that meets our foolish eyes                Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.                'Tis but a trial all must undergo,                To teach unthankful mortals how to prize                That happiness vain man's denied to know,                Until he's called to claim it in the skies.Comments                 For more information on this unjustly neglected 19th Century poet, visit http://www.johnclare.org.uk/                                                                                                                    First aired: 10 October, 2007                                                                                                                                    For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.                                                                                                                                                                                                Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- What is Life? by John Clare (1793 – 1864) And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought. And Happiness? A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn, That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, And robs each flow'ret of its gem -and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound? That dark mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. And Peace? Where can its happiness abound? Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave. Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. 'Tis but a trial all must undergo, To teach unthankful mortals how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's called to claim it in the skies. Comments For more information on this unjustly neglected 19th Century poet, visit <a href="http://www.johnclare.org.uk/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.johnclare.org.uk/</a> First aired: 10 October, 2007 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

335. What is Life? by John Clare

Sir Philip Sidney

P Sidney read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------Sleepby Sir Philip Sidney (1554 – 1586)Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:O make in me those civil wars to cease;I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary head;And if these things, as being thine by right,    Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,    Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.First aired: 28 March 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

P Sidney read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney (1554 – 1586) Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. First aired: 28 March 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

470. Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney

Claire de Lune

P Verlaine read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------Claire de Luneby Paul Verlaine  (1844 – 1896)Votre âme est un paysage choisiQue vont charmant masques et bergamasquesJouant du luth et dansant et quasiTristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.Tout en chantant sur le mode mineurL'amour vainqueur et la vie opportuneIls n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheurEt leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbresEt sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.Claire de Luneby Paul Verlaine  (1844 – 1896)Your soul is a chosen landscapeWhere charming masked and costumed figures goPlaying the lute and dancing and almostSad beneath their fantastic disguises.All sing in a minor keyOf all-conquering love and careless fortuneThey do not seem to believe in their happinessAnd their song mingles with the moonlight.The still moonlight, sad and beautiful,Which gives the birds to dream in the treesAnd makes the fountain sprays sob in ecstasy,The tall, slender fountain sprays among the marble statues.First aired: 14 April 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

P Verlaine read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- Claire de Lune by Paul Verlaine (1844 – 1896) Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques. Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune, Au calme clair de lune triste et beau, Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres. Claire de Lune by Paul Verlaine (1844 – 1896) Your soul is a chosen landscape Where charming masked and costumed figures go Playing the lute and dancing and almost Sad beneath their fantastic disguises. All sing in a minor key Of all-conquering love and careless fortune They do not seem to believe in their happiness And their song mingles with the moonlight. The still moonlight, sad and beautiful, Which gives the birds to dream in the trees And makes the fountain sprays sob in ecstasy, The tall, slender fountain sprays among the marble statues. First aired: 14 April 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

485. Claire de Lune by Paul Verlaine

Alan Seeger

A Seeger read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.www.classicpoetryaloud.com--------------------------------------------I Have a Rendezvous with Deathby Alan Seeger (1888 – 1916)I have a rendezvous with Death   At some disputed barricade,   When Spring comes back with rustling shade   And apple-blossoms fill the air –    I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.      It may be he shall take my hand   And lead me into his dark land   And close my eyes and quench my breath –    It may be I shall pass him still.  I have a rendezvous with Death   On some scarred slope of battered hill,   When Spring comes round again this year   And the first meadow-flowers appear.      God knows 'twere better to be deep   Pillowed in silk and scented down,   Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,   Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,   Where hushed awakenings are dear...   But I've a rendezvous with Death    At midnight in some flaming town,   When Spring trips north again this year,   And I to my pledged word am true,   I shall not fail that rendezvous.   First aired: 15 February 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

A Seeger read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past. <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> -------------------------------------------- I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger (1888 – 1916) I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air – I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath – It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. First aired: 15 February 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

418. I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.comGiving voice to poetry of the past.----------------------------------- O Captain! My Captain!by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;   The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;   The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,   While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:       But O heart! heart! heart!                O the bleeding drops of red,           Where on the deck my Captain lies,             Fallen cold and dead.      O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;   Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;   For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;   For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;       Here Captain! dear father!         This arm beneath your head;           It is some dream that on the deck,             You’ve fallen cold and dead.      My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;   My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;   The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;   From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;       Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!         But I, with mournful tread,           Walk the deck my Captain lies,             Fallen cold and dead.     Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

Walt Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com</a> Giving voice to poetry of the past. ----------------------------------- O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

587. O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

W Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:                http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/                                Giving voice to the poetry of the past.                                ---------------------------------------------                                When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d                from Leaves of Grass                by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)                                This reading lasts some 20 minutes.1                When  lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,                And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,                I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.                                O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;                Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,                And thought of him I love.2                O powerful, western, fallen star!                O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!                O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!                O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!                O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!3                In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,                Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,                With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,                With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard,                With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,                A sprig, with its flower, I break.4                In the swamp, in secluded recesses,                A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.                                Solitary, the thrush,                The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,                Sings by himself a song.                                Song of the bleeding throat!                Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know                If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)5                Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,                Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)                Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;                Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;                Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;                Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,                Night and day journeys a coffin.6                Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,                Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,                With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,                With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,                With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,                With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,                With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,                With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;                With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,                The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,                With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;                Here! coffin that slowly passes,                I give you my sprig of lilac.7                (Nor for you, for one, alone;                Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:                For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.                                All over bouquets of roses,                O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;                But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,                Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;                With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,                For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)8                O western orb, sailing the heaven!                Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,                As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,                As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,                As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,                As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)                As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)                As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;                As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,                As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,                As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,                Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.9                Sing on, there in the swamp!                O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;                I hear—I come presently—I understand you;                But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;                The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.10                O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?                And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?                And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?                                Sea-winds, blown from east and west,                Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:                These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,                I perfume the grave of him I love.11                O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?                And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,                To adorn the burial-house of him I love?                                Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,                With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,                With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;                With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;                In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;                With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;                And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,                And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.12                Lo! body and soul! this land!                Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;                The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,                And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.                                Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;                The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;                The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;                The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;                The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,                Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.13                Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!                Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;                Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.                                Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;                Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.                                O liquid, and free, and tender!                O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!                You only I hear......yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)                Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.14                Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,                In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,                In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,                In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)                Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,                The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,                And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,                And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;                And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,                Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,                Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;                And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.15                Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,                And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,                And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,                I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,                Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,                To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.                                And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;                The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;                And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.                                From deep secluded recesses,                From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,                Came the carol of the bird.                                And the charm of the carol rapt me,                As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;                And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.                                DEATH CAROL.                                16                                Come, lovely and soothing Death,                Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,                In the day, in the night, to all, to each,                Sooner or later, delicate Death.                                Prais’d be the fathomless universe,                For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;                And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!                For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.                                Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,                Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?                                Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;                I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.                                Approach, strong Deliveress!                When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,                Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,                Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.                                From me to thee glad serenades,                Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;                And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,                And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.                                The night, in silence, under many a star;                The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;                And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,                And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.                                Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!                Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;                Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,                I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!17                To the tally of my soul,                Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,                With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.                                Loud in the pines and cedars dim,                Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;                And I with my comrades there in the night.                                While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,                As to long panoramas of visions.18                I saw askant the armies;                And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;                Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,                And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;                And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)                And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.                                I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,                And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;                I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;                But I saw they were not as was thought;                They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;                The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,                And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,                And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.19                Passing the visions, passing the night;                Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;                Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,                (Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,                As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,                Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,                Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,                As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)                Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;                I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,                I cease from my song for thee;                From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,                O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.20                Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;                The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,                And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,                With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,                With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;                With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,                Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;                For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands...and this for his dear sake;                Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,                There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.First aired: 23 August 2008                                For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.                                Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

W Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) This reading lasts some 20 minutes. 1 When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring; Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. 2 O powerful, western, fallen star! O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul! 3 In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig, with its flower, I break. 4 In the swamp, in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary, the thrush, The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat! Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.) 5 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;) Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass; Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising; Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards; Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin. 6 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing, With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn; With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey, With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang; Here! coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. 7 (Nor for you, for one, alone; Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring: For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies; But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes; With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.) 8 O western orb, sailing the heaven! Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d, As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic, As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night, As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;) As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe; As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night, As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 9 Sing on, there in the swamp! O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call; I hear—I come presently—I understand you; But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me; The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 10 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love? Sea-winds, blown from east and west, Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting: These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, I perfume the grave of him I love. 11 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love? Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air; With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific; In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there; With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows; And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. 12 Lo! body and soul! this land! Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships; The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn. Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty; The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes; The gentle, soft-born, measureless light; The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon; The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 13 Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird! Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes; Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song; Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. O liquid, and free, and tender! O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer! You only I hear......yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;) Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 14 Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth, In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages; And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there, Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail; And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. 15 Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still. And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me; The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three; And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird. And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night; And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. DEATH CAROL. 16 Come, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death. Prais’d be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death. Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all; I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong Deliveress! When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee; And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know; And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide; Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death! 17 To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night. Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume; And I with my comrades there in the night. While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions. 18 I saw askant the armies; And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags; Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody; And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter’d and broken. I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them; I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war; But I saw they were not as was thought; They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not; The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d, And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d, And the armies that remain’d suffer’d. 19 Passing the visions, passing the night; Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands; Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul, (Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,) Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves; I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring, I cease from my song for thee; From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. 20 Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night; The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe, With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor; With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well; For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands...and this for his dear sake; Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim. First aired: 23 August 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

338. When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d by Walt Whitman

Ben Johnson

B Johnson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:                http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/                                Giving voice to classic poetry.                                ---------------------------------------------------                                To Celia                                by Ben Johnson (1572 – 1637)                                Drink to me only with thine eyes,                     And I will pledge with mine;                   Or leave a kiss but in the cup                     And I'll not look for wine.                   The thirst that from the soul doth rise                   Doth ask a drink divine;                   But might I of Jove's nectar sup,                     I would not change for thine.                   I sent thee late a rosy wreath,                     Not so much honouring thee                  As giving it a hope that there                     It could not wither'd be.                   But thou thereon didst only breathe                     And sent'st it back to me;                   Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,                   Not of itself but thee!                                                  First aired: 08 October, 2007                                                                                                                                                                    For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

B Johnson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- To Celia by Ben Johnson (1572 – 1637) Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! First aired: 08 October, 2007 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

333. To Celia by Ben Johnson

HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882)Tell me not, in mournful numbers,     Life is but an empty dream!—   For the soul is dead that slumbers,     And things are not what they seem.      Life is real! Life is earnest!           And the grave is not its goal;   Dust thou art, to dust returnest,     Was not spoken of the soul.      Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,     Is our destined end or way;    But to act, that each to-morrow     Find us farther than to-day.      Art is long, and Time is fleeting,     And our hearts, though stout and brave,   Still, like muffled drums, are beating     Funeral marches to the grave.      In the world's broad field of battle,     In the bivouac of Life,   Be not like dumb, driven cattle!     Be a hero in the strife!      Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!     Let the dead Past bury its dead!   Act,—act in the living Present!     Heart within, and God o'erhead!      Lives of great men all remind us     We can make our lives sublime,   And, departing, leave behind us     Footprints on the sands of time;      Footprints, that perhaps another,     Sailing o'er life's solemn main,   A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,     Seeing, shall take heart again.      Let us, then, be up and doing,     With a heart for any fate;   Still achieving, still pursuing,     Learn to labor and to wait.   First aired: 18 October 2007For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!— For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. First aired: 18 October 2007 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

342. A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Paul Laurence Dunbar

PL Dunbar read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------The Dilettante: A Modern Typeby Paul Lawrence Dunbar (1872 – 1906)He scribbles some in prose and verse, And now and then he prints it; He paints a little,--gathers some Of Nature's gold and mints it.He plays a little, sings a song, Acts tragic roles or funny; He does, because his love is strong, But not, oh, not for money!He studies almost everything From social art to science; A thirsty mind, a flowing spring, Demand and swift compliance.He looms above the sordid crowd, At least through friendly lenses; While his mama looks pleased and proud, And kindly pays expenses.First aired: 26 April 2009For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

PL Dunbar read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- The Dilettante: A Modern Type by Paul Lawrence Dunbar (1872 – 1906) He scribbles some in prose and verse, And now and then he prints it; He paints a little,--gathers some Of Nature's gold and mints it. He plays a little, sings a song, Acts tragic roles or funny; He does, because his love is strong, But not, oh, not for money! He studies almost everything From social art to science; A thirsty mind, a flowing spring, Demand and swift compliance. He looms above the sordid crowd, At least through friendly lenses; While his mama looks pleased and proud, And kindly pays expenses. First aired: 26 April 2009 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

469. The Dilettante by Paul Laurence Dunbar

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------------------Annabel Leeby Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)It was many and many a year ago,       In a kingdom by the sea,   That a maiden there lived whom you may know       By the name of Annabel Lee;   And this maiden she lived with no other thought            Than to love and be loved by me.      I was a child and she was a child,       In this kingdom by the sea,   But we loved with a love that was more than love,       I and my Annabel Lee;   With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven       Coveted her and me.      And this was the reason that, long ago,       In this kingdom by the sea,   A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling     My beautiful Annabel Lee;   So that her highborn kinsmen came       And bore her away from me,   To shut her up in a sepulchre       In this kingdom by the sea.     The angels, not half so happy in heaven,       Went envying her and me;   Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,       In this kingdom by the sea)   That the wind came out of the cloud by night,      Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.      But our love it was stronger by far than the love       Of those who were older than we,       Of many far wiser than we;   And neither the angels in heaven above,      Nor the demons down under the sea,   Can ever dissever my soul from the soul       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:      For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,       In her sepulchre there by the sea,       In her tomb by the sounding sea.     First aired: 16 November 2007For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------------- Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. First aired: 16 November 2007 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008

357. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.--------------------------------------------- A Dream within a Dreamby Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)Take this kiss upon the brow!  And, in parting from you now,  ThIs much let me avow – You are not wrong, who deem  That my days have been a dream:  Yet if hope has flown away  In a night, or in a day,  In a vision or in none,  Is it therefore the less  gone?All  that we see or seem  Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand—How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deepWhile I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave?  Is  all that we see or seem  But a dream within a dream?First aired: 3 April 2009For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- A Dream within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849) Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, ThIs much let me avow – You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream: Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand— How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? First aired: 3 April 2009 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

454. A Dream within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

George Eliot

G Eliot read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/Giving voice to the poetry of the past.---------------------------------------I am Lonelyby George Eliot (1819 – 1880)From "The Spanish Gypsy"The world is great: the birds all fly from me,The stars are golden fruit upon a treeAll out of reach: my little sister went,And I am lonely.The world is great: I tried to mount the hillAbove the pines, where the light lies so still,But it rose higher: little Lisa wentAnd I am lonely.The world is great: the wind comes rushing by.I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cryAnd hurt my heart: my little sister went,And I am lonely.The world is great: the people laugh and talk,And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,And I am lonely.First aired: 19 May 2008For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

G Eliot read by Classic Poetry Aloud: <a href="http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/</a> Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- I am Lonely by George Eliot (1819 – 1880) From "The Spanish Gypsy" The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely. The world is great: the wind comes rushing by. I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry And hurt my heart: my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. First aired: 19 May 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

503. I am Lonely by George Eliot

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