Classic Poetry Aloud Podcast
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Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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518. A Quoi Bon Dire by Charlotte Mew
Mon, Nov 23, 2009
Charlotte Mew read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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A Quoi Bon Dire
by Charlotte Mew(1869 ? 1928)
Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
But I.
So I, as I grow stiff and cold
To this and that say Good-bye too;
And everybody sees that I am old
But you.
And one fine morning in a sunny lane
Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear
That nobody can love their way again
While over there
You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.
First aired: 28 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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516. Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Fri, Nov 20, 2009
GM Hopkins read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Pied Beauty
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 ? 1889)
Glory be to God for dappled things?
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches? wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced?fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
First aired: 21 November 2009
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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515. The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy
Fri, Nov 20, 2009
T Hardy read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy (1840 ? 1928)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
First aired: 17 November 2007
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Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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514. Stanzas to Augusta by Lord Byron
Fri, Nov 20, 2009
Lord Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Stanzas to Augusta
by Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray?
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair?the cold depart;
When fortune changed?and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose, and set not to the last.
Oh, blest be thine unbroken light!
That watched me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray?
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dashed the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook?
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st as stands a lovely tree
That, still unbroke though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend, the skies might pour,
But there thou wert?and still wouldst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind?and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken?thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel?but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed in thee;?
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert?e'en to me.
First aired: 20 November 2009
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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513. Lullaby by William Blake
Thu, Nov 19, 2009
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Lullaby
A prologue to King Edward the Fourth
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue
To drown the throat of war! - When the senses
Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness,
Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed
Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand?
When the whirlwind of fury comes from the
Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance
Drive the nations together, who can stand?
When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle,
And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death;
When souls are torn to everlasting fire,
And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the slain,
O who can stand? O who hath caused this?
O who can answer at the throne of God?
The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!
Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!
First aired: 19 November 2009
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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512. One Way of Love by Robert Browning
Tue, Nov 17, 2009
R Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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One Way of Love
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strow them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.
How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music?s wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
My whole life long I learn?d to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion - heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? ?T is well!
Lose who may - I still can say,
Those who win heaven, bless?d are they!
First aired: 2 June 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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511. Why So Pale and Wan? by Sir John Suckling
Tue, Nov 17, 2009
J Suckling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Why so Pale and Wan?
by Sir John Suckling (1609 ? 1642)
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
First aired: 22 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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510. Disabled by Wilfred Owen
Sat, Nov 07, 2009
W Owen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Disabled
by Wilfred Owen (1893 ? 1918)
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
? In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
First aired: 8 November 2009
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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509. Envoy by Francis Thompson
Sun, Nov 01, 2009
F Thompson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Envoy
by Francis Thompson (1859 – 1907)
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchas-ed with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
First aired: 5 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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508. Immortality by Matthew Arnold
Sat, Sep 26, 2009
Arnold read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Immortality
by Matthew Arnold (1822 ? 1888)
(Mathew Arnold died on this day ? 15 April ? in 1888.)
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn
The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they,
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day,
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing - only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
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507. Sonnet 2 When forty winters shall besiege thy brow by William Shakespeare
Sat, Sep 12, 2009
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sonnet 2 When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held.
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,"
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
First aired: 13 September 2009
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Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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506. I Told You by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sat, Sep 12, 2009
Ella Wheeler Wilcox read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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I Told You
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 ? 1919)
I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go.
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, and birds, and trees.
And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o' the sun;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring,
And, love, it has all come true.
I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.
I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile,
But the world is so bright, and so full of warm light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown - the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.
First aired: 27 Dec 2007
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Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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505. Song by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Song
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
First aired: 27 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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504. The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
HL Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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.
First aired: 23 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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503. I am Lonely by George Eliot
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
G Eliot read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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
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Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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502. Recessional by Rudyard Kipling
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
R Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Recessional
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 ? 1936)
God of our fathers, known of old ?
Lord of our far-flung battle-line ?
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine ?
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies ?
The captains and the kings depart ?
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
Far-call'd our navies melt away ?
On dune and headland sinks the fire ?
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe ?
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the Law ?
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard ?
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard ?
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
First aired: 16 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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501. Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick (1591–1674) A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:– A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distractión,– An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher,– A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly,– A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat,– A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility,– Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. First aired: 15 May 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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500. Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats
Fri, Aug 07, 2009
WB Yeats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sailing to Byzantium
by William Butler Yeats (1865 ? 1939)
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
First aired: 8 August 2009
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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499. Tears Idle Tears by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Thu, Aug 06, 2009
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Tears Idle Tears
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Songs from ?The Princess.? IV. Tears, Idle Tears
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken?d birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember?d kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign?d
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
First aired: 13 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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498. The Grass so little has to do by Emily Dickinson
Wed, Aug 05, 2009
E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Grass so little has to do
by Emily Dickinson (1830 ? 1886)
The Grass so little has to do ?
A Sphere of simple Green ?
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain ?
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along ?
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything ?
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls ?
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing ?
And even when it dies ? to pass
In Odors so divine ?
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep ?
Or Spikenards, perishing ?
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell ?
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay ?
First aired: 7 May 2008
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Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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497. The Dalliance Of The Eagles by Walt Whitman
Tue, Aug 04, 2009
W Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Dalliance Of The Eagles
by Walt Whitman (1819 ? 1992)
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in the air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
First aired: 3 May 2008
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009
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496. The World is too Much With Us by William Wordsworth
Sun, Aug 02, 2009
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The World is too Much With
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
First aired: 4 May 2008
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495. Mattins by George Herbert
Sat, Aug 01, 2009
G Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Mattins
by George Herbert (1593 ? 1633)
I cannot ope mine eyes,
But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice:
Then we must needs for that day make a match.
My God, what is a heart?
Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Or star, or rainbow, or a part
Of all these things or all of them in one?
My God, what is a heart?
That thou should'st it so eye, and woo,
Pouring upon it all thy art,
As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?
Indeed man's whole estate
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee:
He did not heav'n and earth create,
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.
Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see,
May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sun-beam I will climb to thee.
First aired: 1 August 2009
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494. Life by Charlotte Bronte
Fri, Jul 31, 2009
C Bronte read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Life
by Charlotte Bronte (1816 ? 1855)
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
First aired: 31 July 2009
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493. Be Still, My Soul, Be Still by AE Housman
Wed, Jul 29, 2009
AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
by AE Housman (1859 ? 1936)
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather, - call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation-
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
First aired: 29 July 2009
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492. The Call by Charlotte Mew
Fri, Jul 10, 2009
C Mew read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
The Call
by Charlotte Mew (1869 ? 1928)
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stopping so
We scarcely saw the sun or rain
Above, or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire.
To-night we heard a call,
A rattle on the window-pane,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us: Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or a dark angel? Who can know?
It left no mark upon the snow,
But suddenly it snapped the chain
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again;
And so we cannot sit here any more.
We must arise and go:
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
First aired: 3 May 2008
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491. Piano by DH Lawrence
Mon, Jun 29, 2009
DH Lawrence read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Piano
by DH Lawrence (1885 ? 1930)
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
First aired: 1 May 2008
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490. Loveliest of Trees by AE Housman
Sun, Jun 28, 2009
AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Loveliest of Trees
by AE Housman (1859 ? 1936)
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
First aired: 30 April 2008
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489. The Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Sat, Jun 27, 2009
RW Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
The Rhodora
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 ? 1882)
On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
First aired: 28 April 2008
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488. Opportunity by James Elroy Flecker
Sat, Jun 20, 2009
JE Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Opportunity
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 ? 1915)
From Machiavelli
"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced,
O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal
Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"
"I am that maid whose secret few may steal,
Called Opportunity. I hasten by
Because my feet are treading on a wheel,
Being more swift to run than birds to fly.
And rightly on my feet my wings I wear,
To blind the sight of those who track and spy;
Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair
To veil my face, and down my breast to fall,
Lest men should know my name when I am there;
And leave behind my back no wisp at all
For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide
So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."
"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?"
"Penitence. Mark this well that by decree
Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.
And thou hast spent much time in talk with me
Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand,
Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see
How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."
First aired: 25 July 2007
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487. The Way Through the Woods by Rudyard Kipling
Fri, Jun 19, 2009
R Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Way Through the Woods
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 ? 1936)
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods.
First aired: 16 July 2007
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486. Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare
Thu, Jun 18, 2009
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sonnet 116
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
First aired: 19 April 2008
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485. Claire de Lune by Paul Verlaine
Tue, Jun 16, 2009
P Verlaine read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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484. Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis by James Elroy Flecker
Mon, Jun 15, 2009
JE Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 ? 1915)
Come, let me kiss your wistful face
Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain,
And live sweet days and bitter days
With you, or wanting you again.
I dread your perishable gold:
Come near me now; the years are few.
Alas, when you and I are old
I shall not want to look at you:
And yet come in. I shall not dare
To gaze upon your countenance,
But I shall huddle in my chair,
Turn to the fire my fireless glance,
And listen, while that slow and grave
Immutable sweet voice of yours
Rises and falls, as falls a wave
In summer on forgotten shores.
First aired: 9 April 2008
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483. Love by George Herbert
Sun, Jun 14, 2009
G Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Love
by George Herbert (1593 ? 1632)
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'
'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.
First aired: 9 April 2008
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482. Evening on Calais Beach by William Wordsworth
Sat, Jun 13, 2009
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Evening on Calais Beach
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder?everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
First aired: 7 April 2008
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481. Nightingales by Robert Bridges
Sun, Jun 07, 2009
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Nightingales
by Robert Bridges (1844 ? 1930)
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
First aired: 4 April 2008
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480. The Pilgrimage by Sir Walter Raleigh
Sat, Jun 06, 2009
W Raleigh read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Pilgrimage
by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 ? 1618)
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
First aired: 7 April 2008
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479. To Daffodils by Robert Herrick
Thu, May 28, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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To Daffodils
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
First aired: 31 March 2008
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478. We Are the Music Makers by Arthur O?Shaughnessy
Wed, May 27, 2009
A O'Shaughnessy read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Ode ?We Are the Music Makers?
by Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844 ? 1881)
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
First aired: 28 March 2008
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477. The Oak by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Mon, May 25, 2009
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Oak
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;
Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.
All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.
First aired: 26 March 2008
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476. Broken Friendship by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Fri, May 22, 2009
ST Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Broken Friendship
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 ? 1834)
Alas! they had been friends in youth,
But whispering tongues can poison truth!
And constancy lives in realms above!
And life is thorny, and Youth is vain!
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain!
They parted -- ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining!
They stood aloof, the scars remaining;
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder!
A dreary sea now flows between;
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once had been.
First aired: 25 March 2008
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475. The Old Ships by James Elroy Flecker
Sun, May 17, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Old Ships
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 - 1915)
I have seen old ships like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
But I have seen,
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbed on a rose-swept bay,
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder's breath indrawn,
Thought I - who knows - who knows - but in that same
(Fished up beyond Ææa, patched up new
- Stern painted brighter blue -)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom-crimson shore,
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
It was so old a ship - who knows, who knows?
- And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
First aired: 21 March 2008
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474. To Music to Becalm his Fever by Robert Herrick
Sat, May 16, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
To Music to Becalm his Fever
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like the silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptim o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.
First aired: 18 March 2008
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473. Because I Liked you Better by AE Housman
Tue, May 12, 2009
AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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472. Sonnet 75 by Edmund Spenser
Wed, Apr 29, 2009
E Spenser read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sonnet 75
by Edmund Spenser (1552 ? 1599)
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize!
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name;
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.
First aired: 11 March 2008
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471. The Lover's Appeal by Thomas Wyatt
Tue, Apr 28, 2009
T Wyatt read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Lover?s Appeal
by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503 ? 1542)
And wilt thou leave me thus!
Say nay! say nay! for shame!
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among:
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart
Never for to depart
Neither for pain nor smart:
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas! thy cruelty!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
First aired: 5 March 2008
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470. Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney
Mon, Apr 27, 2009
P Sidney read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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
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469. The Dilettante by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Sat, Apr 25, 2009
PL Dunbar read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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468. The Valley of Unrest by Edgar Allan Poe
Sat, Apr 25, 2009
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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467. England in 1819 by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Fri, Apr 24, 2009
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
England in 1819
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,?
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring,?
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,?
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,?
An army which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,?
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless, a book sealed,?
A Senate?Time's worst statute unrepealed,?
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.
First aired: 24 April 2009
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466. Nature and Art by Alexander Pope
Thu, Apr 23, 2009
A Pope read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Nature and Art
from An Essay on Criticism: Part 1
by Alexander Pope (1688 ? 1744)
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same:
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,
Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of art.
Art from that fund each just supply provides,
Works without show, and without pomp presides:
In some fair body thus th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,
Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;
The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
Those Rules of old discover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd;
Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd
By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.
First aired: 3 March 2008
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465. Jerusalem by William Blake
Tue, Apr 21, 2009
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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?Jerusalem?
from ?Milton?
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England?s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England?s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England?s green and pleasant land.
First aired: 18 March 2008
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464. Home Thoughts from Abroad by Robert Browning
Mon, Apr 20, 2009
R Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Home Thoughts, from Abroad
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
O, to be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England?now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops?at the bent spray's edge?
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
?Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
First aired: 1 April 2008
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463. Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam by Ernest Dowson
Wed, Apr 15, 2009
E Dowson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam
(The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long - Horace)
by Ernest Dowson (1867 ? 1900)
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
First aired: 1 March 2008
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462. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
Sun, Apr 12, 2009
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 2008
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461. Waikiki by Rupert Brooke
Sat, Apr 11, 2009
R Brooke read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Waikiki
by Rupert Brooke (1887 ? 1915)
Warm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree
Drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes,
Somewhere an eukaleli thrills and cries
And stabs with pain the night?s brown savagery.
And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,
Gleam like a woman?s hair, stretch out, and rise;
And new stars burn into the ancient skies,
Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.
And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,
And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,
An empty tale, of idleness and pain,
Of two that loved?or did not love?and one
Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
A long while since, and by some other sea.
First aired: 3 March 2008
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460. Easter Week by Charles Kingsley
Sat, Apr 11, 2009
C Kingsley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Easter Week
by Charles Kingsley (1819 ? 1875)
See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices;
Fields and gardens hail the spring;
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,
While the wild birds build and sing.
You, to whom your Maker granted
Powers to those sweet birds unknown,
Use the craft by God implanted;
Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices,
Each his Easter tribute bring-
Work of fingers, chant of voices,
Like the birds who build and sing.
First aired: 22 March 2008
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459. The Timber by Henry Vaughan
Thu, Apr 09, 2009
H Vaughan read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Timber
by Henry Vaughan (1621 ? 1695)
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy line
Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
Nor any thoughts of greenness, leaf, or bark.
And yet?as if some deep hate and dissent,
Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,
Were still alive?thou dost great storms resent
Before they come, and know'st how near they be.
Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
But this thy strange resentment after death
Means only those who broke?in life?thy peace.
First aired: 27 February 2008
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458. Libertatis Sacra Fames by Oscar Wilde
Thu, Apr 09, 2009
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Libertatis Sacra Fames
by Oscar Wilde(1854 ? 1900)
Albeit nurtured in democracy,
And liking best that state republican
Where every man is Kinglike and no man
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,
Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,
Better the rule of One, whom all obey,
Than to let clamorous demagogues betray
Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.
Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane
Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street
For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign
Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,
Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,
And Murder with his silent bloody feet.
First aired: 26 Feb 2008
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457. The Lost Mistress by Robert Browning
Thu, Apr 09, 2009
R Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------
The Lost Mistress
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
All 's over, then: does truth sound bitter
As one at first believes?
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
?You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,?well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart's endeavour,?
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!?
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer!
First aired: 25 February 2008
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456. To Anthea who may command him Anything by Robert Herrick
Wed, Apr 08, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
To Anthea, who may command him Anything
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see:
And, having none, yet will I keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair
Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love my heart,
The very eyes of me:
And hast command of every part
To live and die for thee.
First aired: 20 February 2008
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455. Sudden Light by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Sat, Apr 04, 2009
DG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Sudden Light
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 ? 1882)
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,?
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow?s soar
Your neck turn?d so,
Some veil did fall,?I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time?s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death?s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
First aired: 14 February 2008
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454. A Dream within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe
Fri, Apr 03, 2009
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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453. Absence by Robert Bridges
Mon, Mar 30, 2009
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Absence
by Robert Bridges (1844?1930)
When my love was away,
Full three days were not sped,
I caught my fancy astray
Thinking if she were dead,
And I alone, alone:
It seem'd in my misery
In all the world was none
Ever so lone as I.
I wept; but it did not shame
Nor comfort my heart: away
I rode as I might, and came
To my love at close of day.
The sight of her still'd my fears,
My fairest-hearted love:
And yet in her eyes were tears:
Which when I question'd of,
'O now thou art come,' she cried,
''Tis fled: but I thought to-day
I never could here abide,
If thou wert longer away.'
First aired: 8 February 2008
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452. Go From Me by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sat, Mar 28, 2009
EB Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Go From Me, Sonnets from the Portuguese iii
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 ? 1861)
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore?
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
First aired: 6 February 2008
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451. The Loveliness of Love by George Darley
Sat, Mar 21, 2009
G Darley read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Loveliness of Love
by George Darley (1795?1846)
It is not Beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon?s despair,
Nor the snow?s daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid?s yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:?
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
Like Hebe?s in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds; nay, what are lips:
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips
Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen?s breast, though ne?er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
Poison can breathe, than erst perfumed;
There?s many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers? hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there?s nought within;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Syren?s hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty?s bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never link?d with error find,?
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the case-burthen?d honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose?
My earthly Comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be
That, when my spirit wonn?d above
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
First aired: 5 February 2008
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450. The Cell by John Thelwall
Fri, Mar 20, 2009
J Thelwall read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Cell
by John Thelwall (1764 ? 1834)
Within the Dungeon's noxious gloom
The Patriot still, with dauntless breast,
The cheerful aspect can assume?
And smile?in conscious Virtue blest!
The damp foul floor, the ragged wall,
And shattered window, grated high;
The trembling Ruffian may appal,
Whose thoughts no sweet resource supply.
But he, unaw'd by guilty fears,
(To Freedom and his Country true)
Who o'er a race of well-spent years
Can cast the retrospective view,
Looks inward to his heart, and sees
The objects that must ever please.
First aired: 31 January 2008
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449. The Choice by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Tue, Mar 17, 2009
DG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Choice
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828 ? 1882)
Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Outstretch'd in the sun's warmth upon the shore,
Thou say'st: "Man's measur'd path is all gone o'er:
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb until he touch'd the truth; and I,
Even I, am he whom it was destin'd for."
How should this be? Art thou then so much more
Than they who sow'd, that thou shouldst reap thereby?
Nay, come up hither. From this wave-wash'd mound
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;
Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd.
Miles and miles distant though the last line be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,--
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.
First aired: January 2008
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448. The Poplar Field by William Cowper
Sun, Mar 15, 2009
W Cowper read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Poplar Field
by William Cowper (1731 ? 1800)
The poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
The change both my heart and my fancy employs,
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
First aired: 27 January 2008
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447. Sonnet 30 by Edmund Spenser (My love is like to ice and I to fire)
Sat, Mar 14, 2009
E Spenser read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Sonnet 30
by Edmund Spenser (1552 ? 1599)
My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentile mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.
First aired: 26 January 2008
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446. The Tide Rises The Tide Falls by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Wed, Mar 11, 2009
HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 ? 1882)
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
First aired: 25 January 2009
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445. Spleen by Ernest Dowson
Mon, Mar 09, 2009
E Dowson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Spleen
by Ernest Dowson (1867 ? 1900)
I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,
And all my memories were put to sleep.
I watched the river grow more white and strange,
All day till evening I watched it change.
All day till evening I watched the rain
Beat wearily upon the window pane
I was not sorrowful, but only tired
Of everything that ever I desired.
Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me
The shadow of a shadow utterly.
All day mine hunger for her heart became
Oblivion, until the evening came,
And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,
With all my memories that could not sleep.
First aired: 24 January 2008
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444. Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sun, Mar 08, 2009
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Love's Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle ?
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea ?
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
First aired: 21 January 2008
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443. Blow Bugle Blow by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Fri, Mar 06, 2009
Lord Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Blow, Bugle, Blow
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
First aired: 22 January 2008
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442. Platonic Love by Abraham Cowley
Thu, Mar 05, 2009
A Cowley read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Platonic Love
by Abraham Cowley (1618 ? 1667)
Indeed I must confess,
When souls mix 'tis an happiness,
But not complete till bodies too do join,
And both our wholes into one whole combine;
But half of heaven the souls in glory taste
Till by love in heaven at last
Their bodies too are placed.
In thy immortal part
Man, as well as I, thou art.
But something 'tis that differs thee and me,
And we must one even in that difference be.
I thee both as a man and woman prize,
For a perfect love implies
Love in all capacities.
Can that for true love pass
When a fair woman courts her glass?
Something unlike must in love's likeness be:
His wonder is one and variety.
For he whose soul nought but a soul can move
Does a new Narcissus prove,
And his own image love.
That souls do beauty know
'Tis to the body's help they owe;
If when they know't they straight abuse that trust
And shut the body from't, 'tis as unjust
As if I brought my dearest friend to see
My mistress and at th' instant he
Should steal her quite from me.
First aired: 18 January 2008
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441. The Garden of Love by William Blake
Wed, Mar 04, 2009
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Garden of Love
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
First aired: 21 January 2008
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440. Give Me Leave to Rail at You by John Wilmot
Tue, Mar 03, 2009
J Wilmott read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Give Me Leave to Rail at You
by John Wilmot (1647 ? 1680)
Give me leave to rail at you, -
I ask nothing but my due:
To call you false, and then to say
You shall not keep my heart a day.
But alas! against my will
I must be your captive still.
Ah! be kinder, then, for I
Cannot change, and would not die.
Kindness has resistless charms;
All besides but weakly move;
Fiercest anger it disarms,
And clips the wings of flying love.
Beauty does the heart invade,
Kindness only can persuade;
It gilds the lover's servile chain,
And makes the slave grow pleased again.
First aired: January 2008
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439. Ozymandias by Horace Smith
Mon, Mar 02, 2009
H Smith read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Ozymandias
by Horace Smith (1779 - 1849)
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desart knows:?
"I am great OZYMANDIAS ," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand."? The City's gone,?
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder,?and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
First aired: 16 January 2008
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437. We'll Go No More A-Roving by Lord Byron
Sat, Feb 28, 2009
Lord Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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We'll Go No More A-Roving
by Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
First aired: 27 February 2009
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436. Rain by Edward Thomas
Fri, Feb 27, 2009
E Thomas read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Rain
by Edward Thomas (1878 ? 1917)
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.
First aired: 27 February 2009
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435. What if a Day by Thomas Campion
Wed, Feb 25, 2009
T Campion read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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What if a Day
by Thomas Campion (1567 ? 1620)
What if a day, or a month, or a year
Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings?
Cannot a chance of a night or an hour
Cross thy desires with as many sad tormentings?
Fortune, honor, beauty, youth
Are but blossoms dying;
Wanton pleasure, doting love
Are but shadows flying.
All our joys are but toys,
Idle thoughts deceiving;
None have power of an hour
In their lives? bereaving.
Earth?s but a point to the world, and a man
Is but a point to the world?s compare´d centure;
Shall then the point of a point be so vain
As to triumph in a sely point?s adventure?
As is hazard that we have,
There is nothing biding;
Days of pleasure are like streams
Through fair meadows gliding.
Weal and woe, time doth go,
Time is never turning;
Secret fates guide our states,
Both in mirth and mourning.
First aired: 25 February 2009
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434. When I was One-and-Twenty by AE Housman
Mon, Feb 23, 2009
AE Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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When I was One-and-Twenty
by AE Housman (1859 ? 1936)
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
?Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.?
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
?The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
?Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.?
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ?tis true, ?tis true.
First aired: 15 January 2008
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434. Count That Day Lost by George Eliot
Sun, Feb 22, 2009
G Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Count That Day Lost
by George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) (1819 ? 1880)
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went -
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay -
If, through it all
You've nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face-
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost -
Then count that day as worse than lost.
First aired: 12 January 2008
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433. from the Eve of St Agnes by John Keats
Sat, Feb 21, 2009
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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fromThe Eve of St. Agnes
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
XXXIII
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,?
Tumultuous,?and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play?d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call?d, ?La belle dame sans mercy:?
Close to her ear touching the melody;?
Wherewith disturb?d, she utter?d a soft moan:
He ceased?she panted quick?and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
XXXIV
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell?d
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look?d so dreamingly.
XXXV
?Ah, Porphyro!? said she, ?but even now
?Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
?Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
?And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
?How chang?d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
?Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
?Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
?Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
?For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.?
XXXVI
Beyond a mortal man impassion?d far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush?d, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven?s deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,?
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love?s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes? moon hath set.
First aired: 20 February 2009
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432. Forget Not Yet by Sir Thomas Wyatt
Fri, Feb 20, 2009
Sir T Wyatt read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Forget not yet
by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503 ? 1542)
The Lover Beseecheth his Mistress not to Forget his Steadfast Faith and True Intent
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not! O, forget not this!?
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss?
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!
First aired: 9 January 2008
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431. The Bracelet: To Julia by Robert Herrick
Thu, Feb 19, 2009
R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Bracelet: To Julia
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this silken twist;
For what other reason is 't
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bond-slave is my heart:
'Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free;
But 'tis otherwise with me:
?I am bound and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could, I would not so.
First aired: 6 January 2008
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430. Oxford Canal by James Elroy Flecker
Sun, Feb 15, 2009
JE Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Oxford Canal
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 ? 1915)
When you have wearied of the valiant spires of this County Town,
Of its wide white streets and glistening museums, and black monastic walls,
Of its red motors and lumbering trains, and self-sufficient people,
I will take you walking with me to a place you have not seen ?
Half town and half country?the land of the Canal.
It is dearer to me than the antique town: I love it more than the rounded hills:
Straightest, sublimest of rivers is the long Canal.
I have observed great storms and trembled: I have wept for fear of the dark.
But nothing makes me so afraid as the clear water of this idle canal on a summer's noon.
Do you see the great telegraph poles down in the water, how every wire is distinct?
If a body fell into the canal it would rest entangled in those wires for ever, between earth and air.
For the water is as deep as the stars are high.
One day I was thinking how if a man fell from that lofty pole
He would rush through the water toward me till his image was scattered by his splash,
When suddenly a train rushed by: the brazen dome of the engine flashed:
the long white carriages roared;
The sun veiled himself for a moment, and the signals loomed in fog;
A savage woman screamed at me from a barge: little children began to cry;
The untidy landscape rose to life: a sawmill started;
A cart rattled down to the wharf, and workmen clanged over the iron footbridge;
A beautiful old man nodded from the first story window of a square red house,
And a pretty girl came out to hang up clothes in a small delightful garden.
O strange motion in the suburb of a county town: slow regular movement of the dance of death!
Men and not phantoms are these that move in light.
Forgotten they live, and forgotten die.
First aired: January 2008
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428. Can Life be a Blessing by John Henry Dryden
Sun, Feb 15, 2009
JH Dryden read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Can Life be a Blessing
by John Henry Dryden (1631 ? 1700)
Can life be a blessing,
Or worth the possessing,
Can life be a blessing if love were away?
Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking,
And though he torment us with cares all the day,
Yet he sweetens, he sweetens our pains in the taking,
There's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay.
In ev'ry possessing,
The ravishing blessing,
In ev'ry possessing the fruit of our pain,
Poor lovers forget long ages of anguish,
Whate'er they have suffer'd and done to obtain;
'Tis a pleasure, a pleasure to sigh and to languish,
When we hope, when we hope to be happy again.
First aired: 31 December 2007
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427. Summer And Winter by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sun, Feb 15, 2009
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Summer And Winter
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon--and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds,
The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.
It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold:
Alas, then, for the homeless beggar old!
First aired: 28 December 2007
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426. Sonnets from the Portuguese V When our two souls by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Fri, Feb 13, 2009
EB Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Sonnets from the Portuguese V
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 ? 1861)
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curving point,?what bitter wrong
Can the earth do us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd?where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
First aired: 6 March 2008
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425. Unfolded Out of the Folds by Walt Whitman
Thu, Feb 12, 2009
W Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Unfolded Out of the Folds
by Walt Whitman (1819 ? 1892)
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded, and is always to come unfolded;
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the superbest man of the earth;
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man;
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman, can a man be form?d of perfect body;
Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of the woman, can come the poems of man?(only thence have my poems come; )
Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love, only thence can appear the strong and arrogant man I love;
Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman I love, only thence come the brawny embraces of the man;
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman?s brain, come all the folds of the man?s brain, duly obedient;
Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all justice is unfolded;
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy:
A man is a great thing upon the earth, and through eternity ? but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman,
First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.
First aired: 19 February 2008
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424. Unsolved by John McCrae
Tue, Feb 10, 2009
J McCrae read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Unsolved
by John McCrae (1872 ? 1918)
Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best
That I should tread, with men their human ways."
God took the teacher, ere the task was learned,
And to my lonely books again I turned.
First aired: 19 February 2008
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423. I am as I am by Sir Thomas Wyatt
Sat, Feb 07, 2009
T Wyatt read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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I am as I am
by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503 ? 1542)
I am as I am and so will I be
But how that I am none knoweth truly,
Be it evil be it well, be I bond be I free
I am as I am and so will I be.
I lead my life indifferently,
I mean nothing but honestly,
And though folks judge diversely,
I am as I am and so will I die.
I do not rejoice nor yet complain,
Both mirth and sadness I do refrain,
And use the mean since folks will fain
Yet I am as I am be it pleasure or pain.
Divers do judge as they do true,
Some of pleasure and some of woe,
Yet for all that no thing they know,
But I am as I am wheresoever I go.
But since judgers do thus decay,
Let every man his judgement say:
I will it take in sport and play,
For I am as I am who so ever say nay.
Who judgeth well, well God him send;
Who judgeth evil, God them amend;
To judge the best therefore intend,
For I am as I am and so will I end.
Yet some that be that take delight
To judge folks thought for envy and spite,
But whether they judge me wrong or right,
I am as I am and so do I write.
Praying you all that this do read,
To trust it as you do your creed,
And not to think I change my weed,
For I am as I am however I speed.
But how that is I leave to you;
Judge as ye list, false or true;
Ye know no more than afore ye knew;
Yet I am as I am whatever ensue.
And from this mind I will not flee,
But to you all that misjudge me,
I do protest as ye may see,
That I am as I am and so will I be.
First aired: 18 February 2008
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422. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
Sat, Feb 07, 2009
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Ode to a Nightingale
by John Keats. (1795?1821)
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain?
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:?do I wake or sleep?
First aired: 7 February 2009
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421. Cards and Kisses by John Lyly
Fri, Feb 06, 2009
Cards And Kisses by: John Lyly
J Lyly read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Cards And Kisses
by John Lyly (1553-1606)
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses--Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes--
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
First aired: 6 February 2009
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420. On the Grasshopper and Cricket by John Keats
Wed, Feb 04, 2009
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
by John Keats (1795?1821)
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper?s?he takes the lead
In summer luxury,?he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket?s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper?s among some grassy hills.
December 30, 1816.
First aired: 4 February 2009
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419. from The Ballard of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde
Tue, Feb 03, 2009
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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fromThe Ballard of Reading Gaol
by Oscar Wilde (1854 ? 1900)
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow?s got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place.
First aired: 16 February 2008
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418. I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger
Mon, Feb 02, 2009
A Seeger read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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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
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417. Reunited by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sat, Jan 31, 2009
EW Wilcox read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Reunited
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855 ? 1919)
Let us begin, dear love, where we left off;
Tie up the broken threads of that old dream,
And go on happy as before, and seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.
Let us forget the graves which lie between
Our parting and our meeting, and the tears
That rusted out the gold-work of the years,
The frosts that fell upon our gardens green.
Let us forget the cold, malicious Fate
Who made our loving hearts her idle toys,
And once more revel in the old sweet joys
Of happy love. Nay, it is not too late!
Forget the deep-ploughed furrows in my brow;
Forget the silver gleaming in my hair;
Look only in my eyes! Oh! darling, there
The old love shone no warmer then than now.
Down in the tender deeps of thy dear eyes
I find the lost sweet memory of my youth,
Bright with the holy radiance of thy truth,
And hallowed with the blue of summer skies.
Tie up the broken threads and let us go,
Like reunited lovers, hand in hand,
Back, and yet onward, to the sunny land
Of our To Be, which was our Long Ago.
First aired: 13 February 2008
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416. Surrender by Emily Dickinson
Fri, Jan 30, 2009
E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Surrender
by Emily Dickinson (1830 ? 1886)
Doubt me, my dim companion!
Why, God would be content
With but a fraction of the love
Poured thee without a stint.
The whole of me, forever,
What more the woman can, --
Say quick, that I may dower thee
With last delight I own!
It cannot be my spirit,
For that was thine before;
I ceded all of dust I knew, --
What opulence the more
Had I, a humble maiden,
Whose farthest of degree
Was that she might,
Some distant heaven,
Dwell timidly with thee!
First aired: 11 February 2008
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414. To Science by Edgar Allan Poe
Tue, Jan 27, 2009
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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To Science
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Science! True daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
First aired: 27 January 2009
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413. The Fair Singer by Andrew Marvell
Mon, Jan 26, 2009
A Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Fair Singer
by Andrew Marvell (1621 ? 1678)
To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony;
That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.
I could have fled from one but singly fair ;
My disentangled soul itself might save,
Breaking the curlèd trammels of her hair ;
But how should I avoid to be her slave,
When subtle art invisibly can wreathe
My fetters of the very air I breathe ?
It had been easy fighting in some plain,
Where victory might hang in equal choice,
But all resistance against her is vain,
Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice;
And all my forces needs must be undone,
She having gained both the wind and sun.
First aired: 9 February 2008
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412. My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
Sun, Jan 25, 2009
R Burns read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns (1759 ?1896)
My luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
My luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
O I will luve thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve,
And fare-thee-weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
First aired: 25 January 2009
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411. She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth
Sat, Jan 24, 2009
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways
by William Wordsworth (1770 ?1850)
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
First aired: 24 January 2009
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410. Revelation by Sir Edmund Gosse
Fri, Jan 23, 2009
Sir E Gosse read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Revalation
by Sir Edmund Gosse (1849?1928)
Into the silver night
She brought with her pale hand
The topaz lanthorn-light,
And darted splendour o'er the land;
Around her in a band,
Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,
And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd
The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.
Behind the thorny pink
Close wall of blossom'd may,
I gazed thro' one green chink
And saw no more than thousands may,?
Saw sweetness, tender and gay,?
Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,
Saw braided locks more dark than bay,
And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.
With food for furry friends
She pass'd, her lamp and she,
Till eaves and gable-ends
Hid all that saffron sheen from me:
Around my rosy tree
Once more the silver-starry night was shining,
With depths of heaven, dewy and free,
And crystals of a carven moon declining.
Alas! for him who dwells
In frigid air of thought,
When warmer light dispels
The frozen calm his spirit sought;
By life too lately taught
He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;
Reels from the joy experience brought,
And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.
First aired: 9 February 2008
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409. To One Who has been Long in City Pent by John Keats
Wed, Jan 21, 2009
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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To One Who has been Long in City Pent
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
To one who has been long in city pent,
?Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,?to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,?an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet?s bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E?en like the passage of an angel?s tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
First aired: 22 November 2007
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408. First Love by John Clare
Wed, Jan 21, 2009
J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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First Love
by John Clare (1793 ? 1864)
I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more
First aired: 21 January 2009
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407. Inauguration Day Poem: The Call Of Brotherhood by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson
Tue, Jan 20, 2009
CR Robinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Call Of Brotherhood
by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson (1861 - 1933)
Have you heard it, the dominant call
Of the city?s great cry, and the thrall
And the throb and the pulse of its Life,
And the touch and the stir of its Strife,
As, amid the dread dust and the din
It wages its battle of Sin?
Have you felt in the crowds of the street
The echo of mutinous feet
As they march to their final release,
As they struggle and strive without peace?
Marching how, marching where, and to what!
Oh! by all that there is, or is not,
We must march too and shoulder to shoulder.
If a frail sister slip, we must hold her,
If a brother be lost in the strain
Of the infinite pitfalls of pain,
We must love him and lift him again.
For we are the Guarded, the Shielded,
And yet we have wavered and yielded
To the sins that we could not resist.
By the right of the joys we have missed,
By the right of the deeds left undone,
By the right of our victories won,
Perchance we their burdens may bear
As brothers, with right to our share.
The baby who pulls at the breast
With its pitiful purpose to wrest
The milk that has dried in the vein,
That is sapped by life?s fever and drain
The turbulent prisoners of toil,
Whose faces are black with the soil
And scarred with the sins of the soul,
Who are paying the terrible toll
Of the way they have chosen to tread,
As they march on in truculent dread,
And the Old, and the Weary, who fall
Oh! let us be one with them all!
By the infinite fear of our fears,
By the passionate pain of our tears,
Let us hold out our impotent hands,
Made strong by Jehovah s commands,
The God of the militant poor,
Who are stronger than we to endure,
Let us march in the front of the van
Of the Brotherhood valiant of Man!
First aired: 20 January 2009
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406. Sonnet 130 by William Shakespeare (My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun)
Sun, Jan 18, 2009
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Sonnet 130
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak,--yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
First aired: 18 January 2009
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405. The New House by Edward Thomas
Sat, Jan 17, 2009
E Thomas read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The New House
by Edward Thomas (1878 ? 1917)
Now first, as I shut the door,
I was alone
In the new house; and the wind
Began to moan.
Old at once was the house,
And I was old;
My ears were teased with the dread
Of what was foretold,
Nights of storm, days of mist, without end;
Sad days when the sun
Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs
Not yet begun.
All was foretold me; naught
Could I foresee;
But I learnt how the wind would sound
After these things should be
First aired: 17 January 2009
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404. To Milton by Oscar Wilde
Thu, Jan 15, 2009
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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To Milton
by Oscar Wilde (1854 ? 1900)
Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;
This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,
And the age changed unto a mimic play
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:
For all our pomp and pageantry and powers
We are but fit to delve the common clay,
Seeing this little isle on which we stand,
This England, this sea-lion of the sea,
By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,
Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land
Which bare a triple empire in her hand
When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!
First aired: 19 November 2007
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403. Fears in Solitude by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Wed, Jan 14, 2009
ST Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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from Fears in Solitude
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834)
Thankless too for peace,
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
Alas! for ages ignorant of all
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
Spectators and not combatants! No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation on contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth,
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence,
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony
Of our fierce doings?
First aired: 4 November 2007
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402. The Song of the Shirt by Thomas Hood
Tue, Jan 13, 2009
T Hood read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Song of the Shirt
by Thomas Hood (1799 ? 1845)
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread?
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the ?Song of the Shirt!?
?Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work?work?work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It ?s Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
?Work?work?work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work?work?work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
?Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you ?re wearing out,
But human creatures? lives!
Stitch?stitch?stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
?But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own?
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
?Work?work?work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread?and rags.
That shatter?d roof?and this naked floor?
A table?a broken chair?
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.
?Work?work?work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work?work?work,
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb?d,
As well as the weary hand.
?Work?work?work,
In the dull December light,
And work?work?work,
When the weather is warm and bright,
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
?Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal,
?Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!?
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread?
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this ? Song of the Shirt!"
First aired: 1 November 2007
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401. To Sleep by John Keats
Sun, Jan 11, 2009
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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To Sleep
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
First aired: 25 October 2007
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400. Darkness by Lord Byron
Sat, Jan 10, 2009
Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Darkness
by George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
I had a dream, which was not all a dream,
The bright sun was extinguish?d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air
Morn came and went?and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation: and all hearts
Were chill?d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires?and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings?the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other?s face
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contained;
Forests were set on fire?but hour by hour
They fell and faded?and the crackling trunks
Extinguish?d with a crash?and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look?d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash?d their teeth and howl?d: the wild birds shriek?d,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground.
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl?d
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless?they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again:?a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought?and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails?men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour?d,
Even dogs assail?d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish?d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer?d not with a caress?he died.
The crowd was famish?d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place,
Where had been heap?d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other?s aspects?saw and shriek?d, and died?
Ev?n of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous, and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death?a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr?d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp?d,
They slept on the abyss without a surge?
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither?d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish?d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them?She was the Universe!
First aired: 11 March 2008
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399. Show me the Way by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Wed, Jan 07, 2009
EW Wheeler read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Show me the Way
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 ? 1919)
Show me the way that leads to the true life.
I do not care what tempests may assail me,
I shall be given courage for the strife;
I know my strength will not desert or fail me;
I know that I shall conquer in the fray:
Show me the way.
Show me the way up to a higher plane,
Where body shall be servant to the soul.
I do not care what tides of woe or pain
Across my life their angry waves may roll,
If I but reach the end I seek, some day:
Show me the way.
Show me the way, and let me bravely climb
Above vain grievings for unworthy treasures;
Above all sorrow that finds balm in time;
Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures;
Up to those heights where these things seem child's-play:
Show me the way.
Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace
Which springs from an inward consciousness of right;
To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease,
And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.
Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray,
Show me the way.
First aired: 31 January 2008
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398. from Childe Harolds Pilgrimage by Lord Byron
Wed, Jan 07, 2009
Lord Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
by George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers,--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,--as I do here.
First aired: 8 January 2009
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397. from an Essay on Criticism by Alexander Pope
Wed, Jan 07, 2009
EW Wheeler read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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from an Essay on Criticism
by Alexander Pope (1688 ? 1744)
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth denied
She gives in large recruits of needful Pride:
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits swell'd with wind:
Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our deference,
And fills up all the mighty void of Sense:
If once right Reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
First aired: 7 January 2009
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396. Echo by Christina Rossetti
Tue, Jan 06, 2009
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Echo
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope and love of finished years.
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death;
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
First aired: 6 January 2009
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395. The Lost Chord by Adelaide Anne Procter
Mon, Jan 05, 2009
AA Procter read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Lost Chord
by Adelaide Anne Procter (1825 ? 1864)
Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill-at-ease;
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I know not what I was playing
Or what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an angel's psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.
It quieted pain and sorrow
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.
It linked all perplexèd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the organ
And entered into mine.
It may be that death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in heav'n
I shall hear that grand Amen.
First aired: 5 January 2009
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394. Invictus by William Ernest Henley
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
WE Henley read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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Invictus
by William Ernest Henley (1849 ? 1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
First aired: 14 January 2008
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393. The Character of a Happy Life by Sir Henry Wooton
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
H Wooton read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Character of a Happy Life
by Sir Henry Wooton (1568 ? 1639)
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;
? This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
First aired: 4 February 2008
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392. I Stood on a Tower by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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I Stood on a Tower
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
I stood on a tower in the wet,
And New Year and Old Year met,
And winds were roaring and blowing;
And I said, 'O years that meet in tears,
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?
'Science enough and exploring
Wanderers coming and going
Matter enough for deploring
But aught that is worth the knowing?'
Seas at my feet were flowing
Waves on the shingle pouring,
Old Year roaring and blowing
And New Year blowing and roaring.
First aired: 2 January 2009
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391. The Quiet Life by Alexander Pope
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
A Pope read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Quiet Life
by Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744)
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
First aired: 31 May 2007
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390. The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
T Hardy read by Classic Poetry Aloud; Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy (1840 ? 1928)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter?s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land?s sharp features seem?d to be
The Century?s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
First aired: 17 November 2007
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389. London Snow by Robert Bridges
Tue, Dec 30, 2008
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud: Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com
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London Snow
by Robert Bridges (1844 ? 1930)
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
First aired: 30 December 2007
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388. Out in the Dark by Edward Thomas
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
MT ,
E Thomas read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
Out in the Dark
by Edward Thomas (1878 ? 1917)
Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe ;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.
Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when the lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Than the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned ;
And star and I and wind and deer,
Are in the dark together, - near,
Yet far, - and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.
How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.
First aired: 28 December 2007
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387. Bleak Weather by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
EW Wheeler read by Classic Poetry Aloud, giving voice to the poetry of the past.
www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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Bleak Weather
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 ? 1919)
Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew,
The white snows are falling;
And all through the woods, where I wandered with you,
The loud winds are calling;
And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,
Neath the oak -- you remember,
Over hill-top and forest has followed the June,
And left us -- December.
Has left, like a friend who is true in the sun,
And false in the shadows.
He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone,
Greener woodlands and meadows.
Let him go! What care we? let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift on the heather!
We can sing through it all; I have you -- you have me,
And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new year be born
That is bleaker and colder;
It cannot dismay us; we dare it -- we scorn,
For our love makes us bolder.
Ah Robin! sing loud on your far-distant lea,
You friend in fair weather;
But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee,
By two warm hearts together.
First aired: 28 December 2007
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386. from A Forsaken Garden by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
AC Swinburne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
from A Forsaken Garden
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837 ? 1909)
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briers if a man make way,
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless
Night and day.
First aired: 27 December 2007
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385. Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 ? 1882)
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
?There is no peace on earth,? I said;
?For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!?
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
?God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!?
First aired: 25 December 2007
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384. Peace by Henry Vaughan
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
H Vaughan read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Peace
by Henry Vaughan (1621 ? 1695)
My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
All skilful in the wars:
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,
And?O my soul, awake!?
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One who never changes?
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
First aired: 29 January 2008
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383. A Birthday by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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A Birthday by Christina Rossetti
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
First aired: 21 December 2007
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382. The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Tue, Dec 23, 2008
RW Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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.
Students and those interested in knowing more should visit: http://www.etsu.edu/writing/amlit_s04/anthology/snowstorm.htm
First aired: 10 January 2008
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381. from Frost at Midnight by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sun, Dec 21, 2008
ST Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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from Frost at Midnight
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 ? 1834)
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
First aired: 26 December 2007
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380. Spirits by Robert Bridges
Thu, Dec 18, 2008
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Spirits
by Robert Bridges (1844 ? 1930)
Angel spirits of sleep,
White-robed, with silver hair,
In your meadows fair,
Where the willows weep,
And the sad moonbeam
On the gliding stream
Writes her scatter'd dream:
Angel spirits of sleep,
Dancing to the weir
In the hollow roar
Of its waters deep;
Know ye how men say
That ye haunt no more
Isle and grassy shore
With your moonlit play;
That ye dance not here,
White-robed spirits of sleep,
All the summer night
Threading dances light?
First aired: 24 December 2007
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379. A Poison Tree by William Blake
Tue, Dec 16, 2008
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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A Poison Tree
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
First aired: 20 December 2007
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378. Oh thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind by John Keats
Mon, Dec 15, 2008
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Oh thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
Oh thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops, 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light,
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phoebus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.
First aired: 15 December 2008
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377. Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson
Sat, Dec 13, 2008
E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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.
First aired: 18 December 2007
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376. Alone by Edgar Allan Poe
Fri, Dec 12, 2008
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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.
First aired: 17 December 2007
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375. Love Lives Beyond The Tomb by John Clare
Thu, Dec 11, 2008
J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Love Lives Beyond The Tomb
by John Clare (1793 ? 1864)
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
Love lives in sleep:
'Tis happiness of healthy dreams:
Eve's dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.
'Tis seen in flowers,
And in the morning's pearly dew;
In earth's green hours,
And in the heaven's eternal blue.
'Tis heard in Spring
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angel's wing
Bring love and music to the mind.
And where's the voice,
So young, so beautiful, and sweet
As Nature's choice,
Where Spring and lovers meet?
Love lives beyond the tomb,
And earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
First aired: 17 December 2007
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374. Psalm 4 by John Milton
Wed, Dec 10, 2008
J Milton read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Psalm 4
translated by John Milton (1608 ? 1674)
Answer me when I call
God of my righteousness;
In straights and in distress
Thou didst me disinthrall
And set at large; now spare,
Now pity me, and hear my earnest prai'r.
Great ones how long will ye
My glory have in scorn?
How long be thus forborn
Still to love vanity,
To love, to seek, to prize
Things false and vain and nothing else but lies?
Yet know the Lord hath chose,
Chose to himself a part
The good and meek of heart
(For whom to chuse he knows)
Jehovah from on high
Will hear my voyce what time to him I crie.
Be aw'd, and do not sin,
Speak to your hearts alone,
Upon your beds, each one,
And be at peace within.
Offer the offerings just
Of righteousness and in Jehovah trust.
Many there be that say
Who yet will shew us good?
Talking like this worlds brood;
But Lord, thus let me pray,
On us lift up the light,
Lift up the favour of thy count'nance bright.
Into my heart more joy
And gladness thou hast put
Then when a year of glut
Their stores doth over-cloy
And from their plenteous grounds
With vast increase their corn and wine abounds.
In peace at once will I
Both lay me down and sleep
For thou alone dost keep
Me safe where ere I lie:
As in a rocky Cell
Thou Lord alone in safety mak'st me dwell.
First aired: 10 December 2008
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373. The Ecstasy by John Donne
Fri, Dec 05, 2008
J Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Ecstasy
by John Donne (1572 ? 1631)
Where, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest
The violet's reclining head,
Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
By a fast balm which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one;
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equal armies Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls?which to advance their state
Were gone out?hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.
First aired: 14 December 2007
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372. To the Virgins to make much of Time by Robert Herrick
Sun, Nov 30, 2008
Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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To the Virgins to make much of Time
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
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371. The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Sat, Nov 29, 2008
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Lotos-Eaters
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
?Courage!? he said, and pointed toward the land,
?This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.?
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro? wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush?d; and, dew?d with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset linger?d low adown
In the red West; thro? mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border?d with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem?d the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem?d, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem?d the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, ?We will return no more;?
And all at once they sang, ?Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.?
CHORIC SONG
I
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir?d eyelids upon tir?d eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro? the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
II
Why are we weigh?d upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown;
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber?s holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
?There is no joy but calm!??
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
III
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo?d from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep?d at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten?d with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o?er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence?ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
V
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other?s whisper?d speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap?d over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears; but all hath suffer?d change;
For surely now our household hearths are cold,
Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange,
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years? war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile;
?Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labor unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
VII
But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet?while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly?
With half-dropped eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill?
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro? the thick-twined vine?
To watch the emerald-color?d water falling
Thro? many a woven acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch?d out beneath the pine.
VIII
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak,
The Lotos blows by every winding creek;
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone;
Thro? every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll?d to starboard, roll?d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl?d
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl?d
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho? the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer?some, ?tis whisper?d?down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
First aired: 6 December 2007
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370. Psalm 1 by John Milton
Thu, Nov 27, 2008
J Milton read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Psalm 1
translated by John Milton (1608 ? 1674)
Done into Verse, 1653
Bless'd is the man who hath not walk'd astray
In counsel of the wicked, and ith'way
Of sinners hath not stood, and in the seat
Of scorners hath not sate. But in the great
Jehovahs Law is ever his delight,
And in his law he studies day and night.
He shall be as a tree which planted grows
By watry streams, and in his season knows
To yield his fruit, and his leaf shall not fall.
And what he takes in hand shall prosper all.
Not so the wicked, but as chaff which fann'd
The wind drives, so the wicked shall not stand
In judgment, or abide their tryal then
Nor sinners in th'assembly of just men.
For the Lord knows th'upright way of the just
And the way of bad men to ruine must.
First aired: 27 November 2008
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369. The Old Familiar Faces by Charles Lamb
Mon, Nov 24, 2008
C Lamb read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Old Familiar Faces
by Charles Lamb (1775?1834)
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces -
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
First aired: 4 December 2007
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368. Go Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller
Sat, Nov 22, 2008
E Waller read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Go, lovely Rose
by Edmund Waller (1606 ? 1687)
Go, lovely Rose?
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that 's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die?that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
First aired: 4 December 2007
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367. Sonnet 21 Say Over Again by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Thu, Nov 20, 2008
EB Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sonnet XXI
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning(1806 ? 1861)
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt?s pain
Cry, "Speak once more?thou lovest!" Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me?toll
The silver iterance!?only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
First aired: 20 November 2008
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366. My Delight and Thy Delight by Robert Bridges
Sun, Nov 16, 2008
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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My Delight and Thy Delight
by Robert Bridges (1844 ? 1930)
My delight and thy delight
Walking, like two angels white,
In the gardens of the night:
My desire and thy desire
Twining to a tongue of fire,
Leaping live, and laughing higher:
Thro' the everlasting strife
In the mystery of life.
Love, from whom the world begun,
Hath the secret of the sun.
Love can tell, and love alone,
Whence the million stars were strewn,
Why each atom knows its own,
How, in spite of woe and deat,
Gay is life, and sweet is breath:
This he taught us, this we knew,
Happy in his science true,
Hand in hand as we stood
'Neath the shadows of the wood,
Heart to heart as we lay
In the dawning of the day.
First aired: 2 December 2007
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365. Crossing the Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Sat, Nov 15, 2008
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Crossing the Bar
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho? from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
First aired: 27 November 2007
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364. Say not the Struggle Naught Availeth by Arthur Hugh Clough
Thu, Nov 13, 2008
AH Clough read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Say not the Struggle Naught Availeth
by Arthur Hugh Clough (1819 ? 1861)
Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!
First aired: 24 November 2007
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363. Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
Tue, Nov 11, 2008
W Owen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918)
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! ? An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
First aired: 9 November 2007
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362. Winter Nightfall by Robert Bridges
Sat, Nov 08, 2008
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Winter Nightfall
by Robert Bridges (1844 - 1930)
The day begins to droop,?
Its course is done:
But nothing tells the place
Of the setting sun.
The hazy darkness deepens,
And up the lane
You may hear, but cannot see,
The homing wain.
An engine pants and hums
In the farm hard by:
Its lowering smoke is lost
In the lowering sky.
The soaking branches drip,
And all night through
The dropping will not cease
In the avenue.
A tall man there in the house
Must keep his chair:
He knows he will never again
Breathe the spring air:
His heart is worn with work;
He is giddy and sick
If he rise to go as far
As the nearest rick:
He thinks of his morn of life,
His hale, strong years;
And braves as he may the night
Of darkness and tears
First aired: 24 November 2007
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361. The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe
Fri, Nov 07, 2008
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Conqueror Worm
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 ? 1849)
Lo! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.
That motley drama?oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes?it writhes!?with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.
Out?out are the lights?out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
First aired: 23 November 2007
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360. The Search by Henry Vaughan
Mon, Nov 03, 2008
H Vaughan read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Search
by Henry Vaughan 1621 ? 1695)
Leave, leave, thy gadding thoughts;
Who Pores
and spies
Still out of Doores,
descries
Within them nought.
The skinne, and shell of things
Though faire,
are not
Thy wish, nor pray?r,
but got
By meer Despair
of wings.
To rack old Elements,
or Dust
and say
Sure here he must
needs stay,
Is not the way,
nor just.
Search well another world; who studies this,
Travels in Clouds, seeks Manna, where none is.
First aired: 3 November 2008
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359. On His Blindness by John Milton
Thu, Oct 30, 2008
J Milton read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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On His Blindness
by John Milton (1608 ? 1674)
When I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
First aired: 20 November 2007
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358. The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy
Sun, Oct 26, 2008
T Hardy read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy (1840 ? 1928)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter?s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land?s sharp features seem?d to be
The Century?s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
First aired: 17 November 2007
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357. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe
Mon, Oct 20, 2008
EA Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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
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356. I Stood Musing in a Black World by Stephen Crane
Sun, Oct 19, 2008
S Crane read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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I Stood Musing in a Black World
by Stephen Crane (1871 ? 1900)
I stood musing in a black world,
Not knowing where to direct my feet.
And I saw the quick stream of men
Pouring ceaselessly,
Filled with eager faces,
A torrent of desire.
I called to them,
"Where do you go? What do you see?"
A thousand voices called to me.
A thousand fingers pointed.
"Look! look! There!"
I know not of it.
But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance
Ineffable, divine --
A vision painted upon a pall;
And sometimes it was,
And sometimes it was not.
I hesitated.
Then from the stream
Came roaring voices,
Impatient:
"Look! look! There!"
So again I saw,
And leaped, unhesitant,
And struggled and fumed
With outspread clutching fingers.
The hard hills tore my flesh;
The ways bit my feet.
At last I looked again.
No radiance in the far sky,
Ineffable, divine;
No vision painted upon a pall;
And always my eyes ached for the light.
Then I cried in despair,
"I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?"
The torrent turned again its faces:
"Look! look! There!"
And at the blindness of my spirit
They screamed,
"Fool! fool! fool!"
First aired: 15 November 2007
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355. I Love You by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sat, Oct 18, 2008
EW Wilcox read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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I Love You
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 ? 1919)
I love your lips when they're wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.
Not for me the cold calm kiss
Of a virgin's bloodless love;
Not for me the saint's white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world's blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.
So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervour born of the South
That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
While the pale stars shine above,
And we'll live our whole young lives away
In the joys of a living love.
First aired: 14 November 2007
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354. Last Lines by Emily Bronte
Sat, Oct 11, 2008
E Bronte read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Last Lines
by Emily Bronte (1818 ? 1848)
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world?s storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven?s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life?that in me has rest,
As I?undying Life?have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men?s hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as wither?d weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchor?d on
The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes cease to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou?Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
First aired: 12 November 2007
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353. The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling
Wed, Oct 08, 2008
R Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Gods of the Copybook Headings
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 ? 1936)
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will bum,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return.
First aired: 14 March 2008
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352. Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms by Thomas Moore
Sat, Oct 04, 2008
T Moore read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
by Thomas Moore (1779 ? 1852)
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Live fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose!
First aired: 1 November 2007
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351. Nature by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sat, Oct 04, 2008
HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Nature
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 ? 1882)
As a fond mother, when the day is o?er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
First aired: 30 October 2007
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350. Persicos Odi by William Makepeace Thackeray
Fri, Oct 03, 2008
WM Thackeray read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Persicos Odi by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811 ? 1863)
Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is,-
I hate all your Frenchified fuss:
Your silly entrées and made dishes
Were never intended for us.
No footman in lace and in ruffles
Need dangle behind my arm-chair;
And never mind seeking for truffles,
Although they be ever so rare.
But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,
I prithee get ready at three:
Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy,
And what better meat can there be?
And when it has feasted the master,
'Twill amply suffice for the maid;
Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,
And tipple my ale in the shade.
First aired: 3 October 2008
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349. A Supplication by Abraham Cowley
Thu, Oct 02, 2008
A Cowley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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A Supplication
by Abraham Cowley (1618 ? 1667)
Awake, awake, my lyre,
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail,
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire,
Though so exalted she
And I so lowly be,
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake,
And though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try,
Now all thy charms apply,
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure but not to wound,
And she to wound but not to cure.
Too weak, too, wilt thou prove
My passion to remove;
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,
For thou canst never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie;
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
First aired: 2 October 2008
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348. From Maud by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Wed, Oct 01, 2008
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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from Maud
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
O let the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet!
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
I shall have had my day.
Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me
Before I am quite quite sure
That there is one to love me!
Then let come what come may
To a life that has been so sad,
I shall have had my day.
First aired: 1 October 2008
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347. One Word is too Often Profaned by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Mon, Sep 29, 2008
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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One Word is too Often Profaned
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
First aired: 29 October 2007
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346. Remember by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Sat, Sep 27, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Remember
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
First aired: 26 October 2007
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345. A Cradle Song by William Blake
Fri, Sep 26, 2008
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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A Cradle Song
by William Blake(1757 ? 1827)
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.
First aired: 26 September 2008
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344. Summer Night by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Wed, Sep 24, 2008
A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Summer Night
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
First aired: 24 October 2007
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343. Good-bye by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Mon, Sep 22, 2008
RW Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Good-bye
by Ralph Waldo Emerson, (1803 ? 1882)
Good-bye, proud world! I?m going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I?m not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I?ve been tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I?m going home.
Good-bye to Flattery?s fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth?s averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud would! I?m going home.
I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone?
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird?s roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?
First aired: 22 October 2007
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342. A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Fri, Sep 19, 2008
HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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
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341. Past and Present by Thomas Hood
Fri, Sep 19, 2008
T Hood read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Past and Present
by Thomas Hood (1799 ? 1845)
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day:
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups?
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,?
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance;
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
First aired: 15 October 2007
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340. After Rain by Edward Thomas
Thu, Sep 18, 2008
E Thomas read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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After Rain
by Edward Thomas (1878 ? 1917)
The rain of a night and a day and a night
Stops at the light
Of this pale choked day. The peering sun
Sees what has been done.
The road under the trees has a border new
of purple hue
Inside the border of bright thin grass:
For all that has
Been left by November of leaves is torn
From hazel and thorn
And the greater trees. Throughout the copse
No dead leaf drops
On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern,
At the wind's return:
The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed
Are thinly spread
In the road, like little black fish, inlaid,
As if they played.
What hangs from the myriad branches down there
So hard and bare
Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see
On one crab-tree.
And on each twig of every tree in the dell
Uncountable
Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain
That begins again.
First aired: 10 September 2008
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339. The Human Seasons by John Keats
Mon, Sep 15, 2008
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Human Seasons
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:?
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness?to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
First aired: 15 October 2008
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338. When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom?d by Walt Whitman
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
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
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337. Somewhere or other by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Wed, Sep 10, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Somewhere or other
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet?never yet?ah me!
Made answer to my word.
Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.
Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.
First aired: 10 September 2008
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336. The World by Henry Vaughan
Tue, Sep 09, 2008
H Vaughan read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
The World
by Henry Vaughan (1621 ? 1895)
I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright ;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years
Driv'n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov'd ; in which the world
And all her train were hurl'd.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain ;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit's sour delights ;
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure,
All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flow'r.
2.
The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow,
He did nor stay, nor go ;
Condemning thoughts?like sad eclipses?scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Work'd under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey ; but one did see
That policy :
Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries
Were gnats and flies ;
It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.
3.
The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust,
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves.
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugg'd each one his pelf ;*
The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
And scorn'd pretence ;
While others, slipp'd into a wide excess
Said little less ;
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave ;
And poor, despisèd Truth sate counting by
Their victory.
4.
Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring ;
But most would use no wing.
O fools?said I?thus to prefer dark night
Before true light !
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shows the way ;
The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God ;
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he !
But as I did their madness so discuss,
One whisper'd thus,
?This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
But for His bride.?
First aired: 9 September, 2008
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335. What is Life? by John Clare
Sat, Sep 06, 2008
J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to classic poetry.
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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
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334. The Harlot?s House by Oscar Wilde
Fri, Sep 05, 2008
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.
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333. To Celia by Ben Johnson
Tue, Sep 02, 2008
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
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332. Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sun, Aug 31, 2008
EW Wilcox read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to classic poetry.
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Solitude
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 ? 1919)
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
First aired: 03 October, 2007
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331. Binsey Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sat, Aug 30, 2008
GM Hopkins read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
Binsey Poplars
felled 1879
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 ? 1889)
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew?
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being só slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where we mean
To mend her we end her,
When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
Strokes of havoc únselve
The sweet especial scene,
Rural scene, a rural scene,
Sweet especial rural scene.
First aired: 03 October, 2007
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330. On first looking into Chapman?s Homer by John Keats
Fri, Aug 29, 2008
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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On first looking into Chapman?s Homer
by John Keats (1795 ? 1821)
Much have I travell?d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow?d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star?d at the Pacific?and all his men
Look?d at each other with a wild surmise?
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
First aired: 02 October, 2007
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329. Where a Roman Villa Stood, Above Freiburg by Mary Coleridge
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
M Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Where a Roman Villa Stood, Above Freiburg
by Mary E. Coleridge (1861 ? 1907)
On alien ground, breathing an alien air,
A Roman stood, far from his ancient home,
And gazing, murmured,
"Ah, the hills are fair,?But not the hills of Rome!"
Descendant of a race to Romans-kin,
Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand.
The self-same rocks fold the same valley in,
Untouched of human hand.
Over another shines the self-same star,
Another heart with nameless longing fills,
Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are,
But not our English hills!"
First aired: 27 September 2007
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328. The Sentimentalist by James Elroy Flecker
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
JE Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Sentimentalist
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 ? 1915)
There lies a photograph of you
Deep in a box of broken things.
This was the face I loved and knew
Five years ago, when life had wings;
Five years ago, when through a town
Of bright and soft and shadowy bowers
We walked and talked and trailed our gown
Regardless of the cinctured hours.
The precepts that we held I kept;
Proudly my ways with you I went:
We lived our dreams while others slept,
And did not shrink from sentiment.
Now I go East and you stay West
And when between us Europe lies
I shall forget what I loved best
Away from lips and hands and eyes.
But we were Gods then: we were they
Who laughed at fools, believed in friends,
And drank to all that golden day
Before us, which this poem ends.
First aired: 22 August 2008
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327. Oxford by Gerald Gould
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
G Gould read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Oxford
by Gerald Gould (1885 ? 1936)
I came to Oxford in the light
Of a spring-coloured afternoon;
Some clouds were grey and some were white,
And all were blown to such a tune
Of quiet rapture in the sky,
I laughed to see them laughing by.
I had been dreaming in the train
With thoughts at random from my book;
I looked, and read, and looked again,
And suddenly to greet my look
Oxford shone up with every tower
Aspiring sweetly like a flower.
Home turn the feet of men that seek,
And home the hearts of children turn,
And none can teach the hour to speak
What every hour is free to learn;
And all discover, late or soon,
Their golden Oxford afternoon.
First aired: 1 October 2007
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326. When Dearest I but think of Thee by Sir John Suckling
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
Sir John Suckling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
When, Dearest, I but think of Thee
by Sir John Suckling (1609 ? 1642)
When, dearest, I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,
Still present with us, tho' unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day
With all his borrow'd lights away,
Till night's black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleepy men,
So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection:
Since in the darkest night they may
By love's quick motion find a way
To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood
Bathe some high promont that hath stood
Far from the main up in the river:
O think not then but love can do
As much! for that 's an ocean too,
Which flows not every day, but ever!
First aired: 20 August 2008
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325. The Dying Christian to his Soul by Alexander Pope
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
A Pope read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Dying Christian to his Soul
by Alexander Pope (1688 ? 1744)
Vital spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
First aired: 19 August 2008
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324. Mine Host by John McCrae
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
J McCrae read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Mine Host
by John McCrae (1872 ? 1918)
There stands a hostel by a travelled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.
First aired: 18 August 2008
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323. There be none of Beauty's daughters by Lord Byron
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
Lord Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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There be none of Beauty's daughters
by Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of summer's ocean.
First aired: 28 September 2007
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322. Memory by William Browne
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
W Browne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Memory
by William Browne (1588 ? 1643)
So shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honeysuckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath
As night they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be
Some that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory:
But could they teach Forgetfulness,
I'd learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.
First aired: 16 August 2008
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321. Quantum Mutata by Oscar Wilde
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Quantum Mutata
by Oscar Wilde (1854 ? 1900)
There was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom anywhere,
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
While England could a great Republic show.
Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care
Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair
The Pontiff in his painted portico
Trembled before our stern ambassadors.
How comes it then that from such high estate
We have thus fallen, save that Luxury
With barren merchandise piles up the gate
Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by:
Else might we still be Milton's heritors.
First aired: 15 August 2008
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320. Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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
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319. Desideria by William Wordsworth
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Desideria
by William Wordsworth (1780 ? 1850)
Surprised by joy?impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport?O! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recall?d thee to my mind?
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss??That thought?s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart?s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
First aired: 13 August 2008
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318. Discipline by George Herbert
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
G Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
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
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317. Aloof by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Aloof
by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:?
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,
And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
First aired: 11 August 2008
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316. Meeting at Night & Parting at Morning by Robert Browning
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
R Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Meeting at Night
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Parting at Morning
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
First aired: 25 September 2007
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315. Sonnet 10 by William Shakespeare
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Sonnet 10
by William Shakespeare(1564 ? 1616)
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now:
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ?scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer?d woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune?s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!
First aired: 9 August
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314. Silence by Thomas Hood
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
T Hood read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Silence
by Thomas Hood (1798 ? 1845)
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave?under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush'd?no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyaena calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan?
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
First aired: 8 August 2008
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313. The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
C Marlowe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
by Christopher Marlowe (1564 ? 1593)
Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.
There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.
Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.
First aired: 20 September 2007
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312. Night by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Night
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,?
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,?
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out.
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand?
Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sigh'd for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
'Wouldst thou me?'
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide bee,
'Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?'?And I replied,
'No, not thee!'
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon?
Sleep will come when thou art fled.
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night?
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!
First aired: 6 August 2008
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311. Night by William Blake
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Night
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have took delight:
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing
And joy without ceasing
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are cover'd warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, wash'd in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o'er the fold.'
First aired: 5 August 2008
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310. Ubique by Joshua Sylvester
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
J Sylvester read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Ubique
by Joshua Sylvester (1561 ? 1618)
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the Sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe'er I am,?below, or else above you?
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
First aired: 4 August 2008
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309. From To a Skylark by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Fri, Aug 01, 2008
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
from To a Skylark
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792?1822)
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert?
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
First aired: 21 August 2007
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308. The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
Lord Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Lady of Shalott
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
1842 edition
Part I.
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
Part II.
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse--
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
First aired: 2 August 2008
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307. Eventide by John McCrae
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
J McCrae read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Eventide
by John McCrae (1872 ? 1918)
The day is past and the toilers cease;
The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey,
And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace
At the close of day.
Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,
As he homeward turns, with the long day done,
Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
Of the setting sun.
Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)
The promise of rest in the fading light;
But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
At the fall of night.
And some see only a golden sky
Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide
To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
At the eventide.
It speaks of peace that comes after strife,
Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,
Of the calm that follows the stormiest life ?
God's eventide.
First aired: 1 August 2008
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306. The Drum by John Scott
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
J Scott read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Drum
by John Scott (1731 ? 1783)
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace and glitt'ring arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To fight and fall in foreign lands.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill a catalogue of woes.
First aired: 17 September 2007
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305. The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
E Lear read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Owl and the Pussycat
by Edward Lear (1812 ? 1888)
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
First aired: 30 July 2008
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304. Parable of the Old Men and the Young by Wilfred Owen
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
W Owen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Parable of the Old Men and the Young
by Wilfred Owen (1893 ? 1918)
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son...
First aired: 29 July 2008
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303. Love's Emblems by John Fletcher
Mon, Jul 28, 2008
J Fletcher read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Love's Emblems
by John Fletcher (1579 ? 1625)
Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'
Yet the lusty spring hath stay'd;
Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid:
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
'Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die.'
First aired: 28 July 2008
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302. Her Voice by Oscar Wilde
Sun, Jul 27, 2008
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
Her Voice
by Oscar Wilde (1854 ? 1900)
The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,
Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun, ?
It shall be, I said, for eternity
?Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love?s web is spun.
Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.
Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy, ?
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.
Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.
And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,?you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.
First aired: 14 September 2007
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301. Pater Filio by Robert Bridges
Sat, Jul 26, 2008
R Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Pater Filio
by Robert Bridges (1844 ? 1930)
Sense with keenest edge unused,
Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire;
Lovely feet as yet unbruised
On the ways of dark desire;
Sweetest hope that lookest smiling
O'er the wilderness defiling!
Why such beauty, to be blighted
By the swarm of foul destruction?
Why such innocence delighted,
When sin stalks to thy seduction?
All the litanies e'er chaunted
Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.
I have pray'd the sainted Morning
To unclasp her hands to hold thee;
From resignful Eve's adorning
Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee;
With all charms of man's contriving
Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.
Me too once unthinking Nature,
?Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,?
Fashion'd so divine a creature,
Yea, and like a beast forsook me.
I forgave, but tell the measure
Of her crime in thee, my treasure.
First aired: 26 July 2008
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300. Gratiana Dancing by Richard Lovelace
Fri, Jul 25, 2008
R Lovelace read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Gratiana Dancing
by Richard Lovelace (1618 ? 1658)
She beat the happy pavement?
By such a star made firmament,
Which now no more the roof envìes!
But swells up high, with Atlas even,
Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,
And, in her, all the deities.
Each step trod out a Lover's thought,
And the ambitious hopes he brought
Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts,
Such sweet command and gentle awe,
As, when she ceased, we sighing saw
The floor lay paved with broken hearts.
First aired: 25 July 2008
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299. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
Thu, Jul 24, 2008
T Arnold read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Dover Beach
by Matthew Arnold (1822 ? 1888)
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
First aired: 13 September 2007
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298. The Lover?s Resolution by George Wither
Wed, Jul 23, 2008
G Wither read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Lover?s Resolution by George Wither
by George Wither (1588-1667)
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman 's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
That without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
First aired: 23 July 2008
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297. Time of Roses by Thomas Hood
Tue, Jul 22, 2008
T Hood read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Time of Roses
by Thomas Hood (1798 ? 1845)
It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses?
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:
O no?the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses?
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
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296. Scorn not the Sonnet by William Wordsworth
Mon, Jul 21, 2008
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Scorn not the Sonnet
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains--alas, too few!
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295. London by William Blake
Sat, Jul 19, 2008
W Blake read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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London
by William Blake (1757 ? 1827)
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
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294. San Miniato by Oscar Wilde
Sat, Jul 19, 2008
O Wilde read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
San Miniato
by Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace, -
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
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293. The Child by Sara Coleridge
Fri, Jul 18, 2008
S Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Child
by Sara Coleridge (1802 ? 1850)
See yon blithe child that dances in our sight!
Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright?
Fond mother, whence these fears?
While buoyantly he rushes o'er the lawn,
Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood's dawn,
Nor dim that sight with tears.
No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours,
But feels as if the newly vested bowers
For him could never fade:
Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet,
But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet,
Our loss is overpaid.
Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can give
Some bitter drops distil, and all that live
A mingled portion share;
But, while he learns these truths which we lament,
Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent,
Such solace to his care.
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292. Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen
Thu, Jul 17, 2008
W Owen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Anthem for Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen (1893 ? 1918)
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, ?
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
First aired: 6 September 2007
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291. A Garden: Written after the Civil Wars by Andrew Marvell
Wed, Jul 16, 2008
A Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
A Garden: Written after the Civil Wars
by Andrew Marvell (1621 ? 1678)
See how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display'd:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd.
Then in some flower's beloved hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd,
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erewhile,
Thou Paradise of the four seas
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With wat'ry if not flaming sword;
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
When roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?
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290. The Toys by Coventry Patmore
Tue, Jul 15, 2008
C Patmore read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Toys
by Coventry Patmore (1823 ? 1896)
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
? His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'
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289. from the Daughter of Herodias by Arthur O?Shaughnessy
Mon, Jul 14, 2008
A. O?Shaughnessy read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
from the Daughter of Herodias
by Arthur O?Shaughnessy (1844 ? 1881)
Her long black hair danced round her like a snake
Allured to each charmed movement she did make;
Her voice came strangely sweet;
She sang: ? O, Herod, wilt thou look on me ?
Have I no beauty thy heart cares to see ??
And what her voice did sing her dancing feet
Seemed ever to repeat.
She sang:? O, Herod, wilt thou look on me ?
What sweet I have, I have it all for thee?.
And through the dance and song
She freed and floated on the air her arms
Above dim veils that hid her bosom?s charms:
The passion of her singing was so strong
It drew all hearts along.
Her sweet arms were unfolded on the air,
They seemed like floating flowers the most fair ?
White lilies the most choice;
And in the gradual bending of her hand
There lurked a grace that no man could withstand;
Yea, none knew whether hands, or feet, or voice,
Most made his heart rejoice.
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288. Sonnet 130 My Mistress' Eyes by William Shakespeare
Sun, Jul 13, 2008
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Sonnet 130 My Mistress' Eyes
by William Shakespeare
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak,--yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
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287. The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sat, Jul 12, 2008
HW Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Day is Done
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 ? 1882)
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o?er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life?s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
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286. All for Love by Lord Byron
Fri, Jul 11, 2008
Lord Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
All for Love
by Lord Byron (1788 ? 1824)
O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary -
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
First aired: 2 September 2007
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285. Song from Abdelazar by Aphra Behn
Thu, Jul 10, 2008
A Behn read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Song from Abdelazar
by Aphra Behn (1640 - 1689)
To celebrate the birthday of Aphra Behn on this day - 10 July - in 1640.
Love in fantastic triumph sat,
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he shew'd;
From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire
Enough to undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee;
Thus thou and I the God have arm'd,
And set him up a Deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.
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284. The Hill by Rupert Brooke
Wed, Jul 09, 2008
R Brooke read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Hill
by Rupert Brooke (1887 ? 1915)
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
-- "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
-- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
First aired: 30 July 2007
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283. The Indian Serenade by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tue, Jul 08, 2008
PB Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Indian Serenade
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
Read in memory of Percy Bysshe Shelley, who died of drowning, 8th July 1822.
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me?who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream?
And the champak's odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
O belovèd as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last!
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282. She was a Phantom of Delight by William Wordsworth
Mon, Jul 07, 2008
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
She was a Phantom of Delight
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament:
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
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281. Adelstrop by Edward Thomas
Sun, Jul 06, 2008
E Thomas read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Adelstrop
by Edward Thomas ((1878 ? 1917)
Yes. I remember Adlestrop ?
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Some one cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop ? only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and around him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
First aired 9 September 2007
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280. Sonnet 57 Being your Slave by William Shakespeare
Fri, Jul 04, 2008
W Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Sonnet 57 Being your Slave
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those!
So true a fool is love, that in your Will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
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279. Dost see how unregarded now by Sir John Suckling
Thu, Jul 03, 2008
Sir J Suckling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Dost see how unregarded now
by Sir John Suckling (1609 ? 1642)
read to mark the death of Sir John Suckling on 3rd July 1642
Dost see how unregarded now
That piece of beauty passes?
There was a time when I did vow
To that alone;
But mark the fate of faces;
The red and white works now no more on me
Than if it could not charm, or I not see.
And yet the face continues good,
And I have still desires,
Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,
As apt to melt
And suffer from those fires;
Oh some kind pow'r unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes?
She ev'ry day her man does kill,
And I as often die;
Neither her power then, nor my will
Can question'd be.
What is the mystery?
Sure beauty's empires, like to greater states,
Have certain periods set, and hidden fates.
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278. Break Break Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Wed, Jul 02, 2008
A Lord Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Break, Break, Break
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill:
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
First aired: 28 August 2007
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277. To Night by Joseph Blanco White
Tue, Jul 01, 2008
JB White read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
To Night
by Joseph Blanco White (1775 ? 1841)
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! Creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?
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276. Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
Mon, Jun 30, 2008
L Carroll read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll (1832 ? 1898)
?T was brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
?Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!?
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought ?
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
?And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!?
He chortled in his joy.
?T was brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
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275. If Thou Must Love Me by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Mon, Jun 30, 2008
EB Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
If Thou Must Love Me
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 ? 1861)
Sonnets from the Portuguese iv
If thou must love me, let it be for naught
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
'I love her for her smile ? her look ? her way
Of speaking gently,? for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day' ?
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee ? and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
In memory of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who died this day, 30 June, in 1861.
First aired: 12 October 2007
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274. The Daffodils by William Wordsworth
Sun, Jun 29, 2008
W Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Daffodils
by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:?
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company!
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
First aired: 17 October 2007
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273. My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is by Sir Edward Dyer
Fri, Jun 27, 2008
Sir E Dyer read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
My Mind to Me a Kingdom
by Sir Edward Dyer (d. 1607)
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords or grows by kind:
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall;
For why? my mind doth serve for all.
I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all:
They get with toil, they keep with fear:
Such cares my mind could never bear.
Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store;
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at another?s loss,
I grudge not at another?s gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust,
A cloakèd craft their store of skill;
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.
My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offence:
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!
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272. Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Fri, Jun 27, 2008
EA Robinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Eros Turannos
by Edwin Arlington Robinson(1869 ? 1935)
She fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose him.
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him,
Her pride assuages her almost,
As if it were alone the cost.?
He sees that he will not be lost,
And waits and looks around him.
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees,
Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days?
Till even prejudice delays
And fades, and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion.
We tell you, tapping on our brows,
The story as it should be,?
As if the story of a house
Were told, or ever could be;
We?ll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,?
As if we guessed what hers have been,
Or what they are or would be.
Meanwhile we do no harm; for they
That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven.
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271. When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be by John Keats
Wed, Jun 25, 2008
J Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be
by John Keats (1795 - 1821)
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high pil'ed books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And feel that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;?then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
First aired: 28 July 2007
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270. To Althea from Prison by Richard Lovelace
Tue, Jun 24, 2008
R Lovelace read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
To Althea from Prison
by Richard Lovelace (1618 ? 1657)
When Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,
The gods, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.
When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
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269. Summer by John Clare
Tue, Jun 24, 2008
J Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Summer
by John Clare(1793 ? 1864)
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
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268. After Great Pain by Emily Dickinson
Sun, Jun 22, 2008
E Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
After Great Pain
by Emily Dickinson (1830 ? 1886)
After great pain, a formal feeling comes ?
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs ?
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round ?
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought ?
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone ?
This is the Hour of Lead ?
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow ?
First ? Chill ? then Stupor ? then the letting go ?
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267. I Look Into My Glass by I Look Into My Glass
Sat, Jun 21, 2008
T Hardy read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
I Look Into My Glass
by Thomas Hardy (1840 ? 1928)
I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, "Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!"
For then I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
First aired: 15 June 2007
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266. from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam by Edward FitzGerald
Fri, Jun 20, 2008
E FitzGerald read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
translated by by Edward FitzGerald (1809 ? 1883)
I
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
II
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little time we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
X
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
And pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne.
XI
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
XII
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some:
Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
XIII
Look to the Rose that blows about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XIV
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone.
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
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265. The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore
Fri, Jun 20, 2008
T Moore read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Last Rose of Summer
by Thomas Moore(1779 ? 1852)
?Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.
I?ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o?er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love?s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
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264. Abou ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt
Wed, Jun 18, 2008
Hunt read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Abou ben Adhem
by Leigh Hunt (1784 - 1859)
Abou ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw?within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom?
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
?What writest thou???The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, ?The names of those who love the Lord.?
?And is mine one?? said Abou. ?Nay, not so,?
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said, ?I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.?
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem?s name led all the rest.
First aired: 18 Aug 2007
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263. The Rainy Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tue, Jun 17, 2008
Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Rainy Day
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 ? 1882)
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
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262. Opportunity by Edward Rowland Sill
Tue, Jun 17, 2008
Sill read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Opportunity
by Edward Rowland Sill(1841 ? 1887)
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
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261. Love?s Grave by George Meredith
Sun, Jun 15, 2008
Meredith read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Love?s Grave
by George Meredith (1828 ? 1909)
Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave!
Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave;
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,
And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight
Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd,
I never could have made it half so sure,
As by the unblest kisses which upbraid
The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!
'Tis morning: but no morning can restore
What we have forfeited. I see no sin:
The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:
We are betray'd by what is false within.
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260. To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet
Sat, Jun 14, 2008
Bradstreet read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
To My Dear and Loving Husband
by Anne Bradstreet (1612 ? 1672)
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov?d by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let?s so persever
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
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259. Now When the Number of My Years by Robert Louis Stevenson
Fri, Jun 13, 2008
Stevenson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Now When the Number of My Years
by Robert Louis Stevenson(1850 ? 1894)
Now when the number of my years
Is all fulfilled, and I
From sedentary life
Shall rouse me up to die,
Bury me low and let me lie
Under the wide and starry sky.
Joying to live, I joyed to die,
Bury me low and let me lie.
Clear was my soul, my deeds were free,
Honour was called my name,
I fell not back from fear
Nor followed after fame.
Bury me low and let me lie
Under the wide and starry sky.
Joying to live, I joyed to die,
Bury me low and let me lie.
Bury me low in valleys green
And where the milder breeze
Blows fresh along the stream,
Sings roundly in the trees -
Bury me low and let me lie
Under the wide and starry sky.
Joying to live, I joyed to die,
Bury me low and let me lie.
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258. To The Men Of England by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Fri, Jun 13, 2008
Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
To The Men Of England
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -- nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.
Sow seed, -- but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -- let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -- let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!
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257. To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence by James Elroy Flecker
Thu, Jun 12, 2008
Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence
by James Elroy Flecker
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Moeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.
First aired: 30 July 2007
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256. Nature That Washed Her Hands in Milk by Sir Walter Raleigh
Wed, Jun 11, 2008
Raleigh read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Nature That Washed Her Hands in Milk
by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 ? 1618)
Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At love's request to try them,
If she a mistress could compose
To please love's fancy out of those.
Her eyes he would should be of light,
A violet breath, and lips of jelly;
Her hair not black, nor over bright,
And of the softest down her belly;
As for her inside he 'ld have it
Only of wantonness and wit.
At love's entreaty such a one
Nature made, but with her beauty
She hath framed a heart of stone;
So as love, by ill destiny,
Must die for her whom nature gave him,
Because her darling would not save him.
But time (which nature doth despise
And rudely gives her love the lie,
Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise)
His hands do neither wash nor dry;
But being made of steel and rust,
Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.
The light, the belly, lips, and breath,
He dims, discolors, and destroys;
With those he feeds but fills not death,
Which sometimes were the food of joys.
Yea, time doth dull each lively wit,
And dries all wantonness with it.
Oh, cruel time! which takes in trust
Our youth, or joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days.
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255.We Will Speak Out by James Russell Lowell
Mon, Jun 09, 2008
Lowell read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
We Will Speak Out
by James Russell Lowell(1819 ? 1891)
We will speak out, we will be heard,
Though all earth's system's crack;
We will not bate a single word,
Nor take a letter back.
Let liars fear, let cowards shrink,
Let traitors turn away;
Whatever we have dared to think
That dare we also say.
We speak the truth, and what care we
For hissing and for scorn,
While some faint gleamings we can see
Of Freedom's coming morn?
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254. Grenadier by AE Housman
Mon, Jun 09, 2008
Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Grenadier
by AE Housman(1859 ? 1936)
The Queen she sent to look for me,
The sergeant he did say,
`Young man, a soldier will you be
For thirteen pence a day?'
For thirteen pence a day did I
Take off the things I wore,
And I have marched to where I lie,
And I shall march no more.
My mouth is dry, my shirt is wet,
My blood runs all away,
So now I shall not die in debt
For thirteen pence a day.
To-morrow after new young men
The sergeant he must see,
For things will all be over then
Between the Queen and me.
And I shall have to bate my price,
For in the grave, they say,
Is neither knowledge nor device
Nor thirteen pence a day.
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253. The Sunne Rising by John Donne
Sun, Jun 08, 2008
Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
The Sunne Rising
by John Donne (1572 - 1631)
Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.
Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both the'India's of spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
She'is all States, and all Princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy'as wee,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.
First aired: 12 July 2007
For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
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252. Love of Country by Sir Walter Scott
Sat, Jun 07, 2008
Scott read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Love of Country
by Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
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Aired: 7 June 2008
Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008
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251. Chanson d'Automne by Paul Verlaine
Fri, Jun 06, 2008
Verlaine read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Chanson d'Automne
by Paul Verlaine
In French
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon c?ur
D'une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure
Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte
In English
The long sobs
of autumn's
violins
wound my heart
with a monotonous
languor.
Wholly breathless
and pale, When
the clock strikes,
I remember
the old days,
And I weep.
And I set off
in the ill wind
that carries me
here and there,
Like
a dead leaf.
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250. When we two parted by Lord Byron
Thu, Jun 05, 2008
Byron read by Classic Poetry Aloud:http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
When We Two Parted
by Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow?
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me?
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met?
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
First aired 28 July 2007 on Classic Poetry Aloud
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249. I Wake and Feel The Fell Of Dark Not Day by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Wed, Jun 04, 2008
GM Hopkins read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
I Wake and Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 ? 1889)
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
What hour, O what black hours we have spent
This night! What sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay,
? With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
? I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the cures.
? Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.
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248. The Wind on the Downs by Marian Allen
Tue, Jun 03, 2008
M Allen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Wind on the Downs
by Marian Allen
I like to think of you as brown and tall,
As strong and living as you used to be,
In khaki tunic, Sam Brown belt and all,
And standing there and laughing down at me.
Because they tell me, dear, that you are dead,
Because I can no longer see your face,
You have not died, it is not true, instead
You seek adventure in some other place.
That you are round about me, I believe;
I hear you laughing as you used to do,
Yet loving all the things I think of you;
And knowing you are happy, should I grieve?
You follow and are watchful where I go;
How should you leave me, having loved me so?
We walked along the tow-path, you and I,
Beside the sluggish-moving, still canal;
It seemed impossible that you should die;
I think of you the same and always shall.
We thought of many things and spoke of few,
And life lay all uncertainly before,
And now I walk alone and think of you,
And wonder what new kingdoms you explore.
Over the railway line, across the grass,
While up above the golden wings are spread,
Flying, ever flying overhead,
Here still I see your khaki figure pass,
And when I leave the meadow, almost wait
That you should open first the wooden gate.
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247. One Way of Love by Robert Browning
Mon, Jun 02, 2008
R. Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
One Way of Love
by Robert Browning (1812 ? 1889)
All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strow them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.
How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music?s wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
My whole life long I learn?d to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion - heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? ?T is well!
Lose who may - I still can say,
Those who win heaven, bless?d are they!
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246. Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
Sun, Jun 01, 2008
Owen read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------------
Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! ? An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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245. Snake by DH Lawrence
Sat, May 31, 2008
Lawrence read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Snake
by DH Lawrence (1885 ? 1930)
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the
edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second-comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into
that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in
undignified haste,
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross,
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
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244. May by Christina Rossetti
Fri, May 30, 2008
Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
May
by Christina Georgina Rossetti(1830 ? 1894)
I cannot tell you how it was;
But this I know: it came to pass
Upon a bright and breezy day
When May was young; ah, pleasant May!
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last eggs had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird forgone its mate.
I cannot tell you what it was;
But this I know: it did but pass.
It passed away with sunny May,
With all sweet things it passed away,
And left me old, and cold, and grey.
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243. Matin Song by Thomas Heywood
Thu, May 29, 2008
Heywood read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Matin Song
by Thomas Heywood(1575? ? 1650)
Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft
To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
To give my Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,
You pretty elves, among yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
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242. A Quoi Bon Dire by Charlotte Mew
Wed, May 28, 2008
Charlotte Mew read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
A Quoi Bon Dire
by Charlotte Mew(1869 ? 1928)
Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
But I.
So I, as I grow stiff and cold
To this and that say Good-bye too;
And everybody sees that I am old
But you.
And one fine morning in a sunny lane
Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear
That nobody can love their way again
While over there
You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.
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241. Song by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Tue, May 27, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Song
by Christina Georgina Rossetti(1830 ? 1894)
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
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240. The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough
Mon, May 26, 2008
The Latest Decalogue
by Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)
Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honour thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill, but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it's so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.
The sum of all is, thou shalt love,
If anybody, God above:
At any rate shall never labour
_More_ than thyself to love thy neighbour.
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The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Fri, May 23, 2008
The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Longfellow read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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.
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Why So Pale and Wan? by Sir John Suckling
Thu, May 22, 2008
Suckling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Why So Pale and Wan?
by Sir John Suckling (1609 ? 1642)
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
If you enjoyed this, why not become a fan of Classic Poetry Aloud?
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The One White Hair by Walter Savage Landor
Wed, May 21, 2008
Landor read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The One White Hair
by Walter Savage Landor (1775 ? 1864)
The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies
And love to hear'em told.
Doubt not that Solomon
Listened to many a one, -
Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.
I never was among
The choir of Wisdom's song,
But pretty lies loved I
As much as any king,
When youth was on the wing,
And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.
Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot
When one pert lady said,
"O Walter! I am quite
Bewildered with affright!
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!"
Another more benign
Snipped it away from mine,
And in her own dark hair
Pretended it was found ?
She leaped, and twirled it round ?
Fair as she was, she never was so fair!
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To Toussaint L'Ouverture by William Wordsworth
Mon, May 19, 2008
Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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To Toussaint L'Ouverture
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; -
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
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I am Lonely by George Eliot
Mon, May 19, 2008
George Eliot read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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I am Lonely
by George Eliot (1819 ? 1880)
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.
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From the vault: The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Fri, May 16, 2008
Hopkins read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
I caught this morning morning?s minion, king-
dom of daylight?s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate?s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,?the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
First aired 28 July 2007
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Recessional by Rudyard Kipling
Fri, May 16, 2008
Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Recessional
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 ? 1936)
God of our fathers, known of old ?
Lord of our far-flung battle-line ?
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine ?
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies ?
The captains and the kings depart ?
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
Far-call'd our navies melt away ?
On dune and headland sinks the fire ?
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe ?
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the Law ?
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard ?
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard ?
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
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Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick
Thu, May 15, 2008
Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Delight in Disorder
by Robert Herrick (1591 ? 1674)
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:?
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distractión,?
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,?
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,?
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,?
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,?
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
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Poetry of Spring in Occasional Miscellany 7 - Marking One Year of Classic Poetry Aloud
Wed, May 14, 2008
CG Rossetti read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Who Has Seen the Wind?
by Christina G. Rossetti (1830 ? 1894)
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.
The Rainbow
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
CXVII
From Complete Poems
By Emily Dickinson (1830 ? 1886)
The inundation of the Spring
Submerges every soul,
It sweeps the tenement away
But leaves the water whole.
In which the Soul, at first alarmed,
Seeks furtive for its shore,
But acclimated, gropes no more
For that Peninsular.
A Petition
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836 ? 1907)
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse?all else withhold?
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
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Tears Idle Tears by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Tue, May 13, 2008
Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Songs from ?The Princess.? IV. Tears, Idle Tears
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 ? 1892)
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken?d birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember?d kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign?d
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
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If by Rudyard Kipling redux
Mon, May 12, 2008
Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
This reading is part of Classic Poetry Aloud's celebration of one year of poetry podcasting (that's over 200 readings!). Donations to support Classic Poetry Aloud for another year would be welcome, just visit http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/ and click the 'PayPal Donate' button.
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If
by Rudyard kipling
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!
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Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge redux
Sun, May 11, 2008
Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
This reading is part of Classic Poetry Aloud's celebration of one year of poetry podcasting (that's over 200 readings!). Donations to support Classic Poetry Aloud for another year would be welcome, just visit http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/ and click the 'PayPal Donate' button.
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Kubla Khan
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me,
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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Death by John Donne
Sat, May 10, 2008
Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
This reading is part of Classic Poetry Aloud's celebration of one year of poetry podcasting (that's over 200 readings!). Donations to support Classic Poetry Aloud for another year would be welcome, just visit http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/ and click the 'PayPal Donate' button.
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Death
by John Donne
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
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O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman redux
Fri, May 09, 2008
Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
This reading is part of Classic Poetry Aloud's celebration of one year of poetry podcasting (that's over 200 readings!). Donations to support Classic Poetry Aloud for another year would be welcome, just visit http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/ and click the 'PayPal Donate' button.
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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.
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How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning redux
Thu, May 08, 2008
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
This reading is part of Classic Poetry Aloud's celebration of one year of poetry podcasting (that's over 200 readings!). Donations to support Classic Poetry Aloud for another year would be welcome, just visit http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/ and click the 'PayPal Donate' button.
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How Do I Love Thee?
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806?1861)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday?s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood?s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,?I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!?and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
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Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats redux
Thu, May 08, 2008
Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to classic poetry.
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Ode on a Grecian Urn
by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal?yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,?that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
You can find more readings of Keats' poetry at:
http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/category/John-Keats/
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Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley and an Introduction to Classic Poetry Aloud Week
Wed, May 07, 2008
Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Ozymandias of Egypt
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:?Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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The Grass so little has to do by Emily Dickinson
Wed, May 07, 2008
Dickinson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Grass so little has to do
by Emily Dickinson (1830 ? 1886)
The Grass so little has to do ?
A Sphere of simple Green ?
With only Butterflies to brood
And Bees to entertain ?
And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Breezes fetch along ?
And hold the Sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything ?
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls ?
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing ?
And even when it dies ? to pass
In Odors so divine ?
Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep ?
Or Spikenards, perishing ?
And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell ?
And dream the Days away,
The Grass so little has to do
I wish I were a Hay ?
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Solitude by Harold Munro
Mon, May 05, 2008
Munro read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Solitude
by Harold Munro (1879 ? 1932)
When you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.
The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
"Someone must be away."
The little dog rolls over half awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.
A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door
Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.
You bend your head and wipe away a tear.
Solitude walks one heavy step more near.
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Envoy by Francis Thompson
Mon, May 05, 2008
Thompson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Envoy
by Francis Thompson
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchas-ed with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
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The World is too Much With Us by William Wordsworth
Sun, May 04, 2008
Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The World is too Much With Us
by William Wordsworth (1770 ? 1850)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
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To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell
Sun, May 04, 2008
Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to classic poetry.
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To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Has we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
First aired July 2007
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The Call by Charlotte Mew
Sat, May 03, 2008
Mew read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Call
by Charlotte Mew (1869 ? 1928)
From our low seat beside the fire
Where we have dozed and dreamed and watched the glow
Or raked the ashes, stopping so
We scarcely saw the sun or rain
Above, or looked much higher
Than this same quiet red or burned-out fire.
To-night we heard a call,
A rattle on the window-pane,
A voice on the sharp air,
And felt a breath stirring our hair,
A flame within us: Something swift and tall
Swept in and out and that was all.
Was it a bright or a dark angel? Who can know?
It left no mark upon the snow,
But suddenly it snapped the chain
Unbarred, flung wide the door
Which will not shut again;
And so we cannot sit here any more.
We must arise and go:
The world is cold without
And dark and hedged about
With mystery and enmity and doubt,
But we must go
Though yet we do not know
Who called, or what marks we shall leave upon the snow.
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Piano by DH Lawrence
Thu, May 01, 2008
Lawrence read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Piano
by DH Lawrence (1885 ? 1930)
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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Loveliest of Trees by AE Housman
Wed, Apr 30, 2008
Housman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Loveliest of Trees
by AE Housman (1859 ? 1936)
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
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The Dalliance Of The Eagles by Walt Whitman
Tue, Apr 29, 2008
Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Dalliance Of The Eagles
by Walt Whitman (1819 ? 1892)
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,)
Skyward in the air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
Till o'er the river pois'd, the twain yet one, a moment's lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
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The Moon by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tue, Apr 29, 2008
Shelley read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Moon
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 ? 1822)
I
And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The mood arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.
II
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
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The Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Mon, Apr 28, 2008
Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
The Rhodora
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 ? 1882)
On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
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Milton! by William Wordsworth
Sat, Apr 26, 2008
Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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London, 1802, Sonnet CCXIII
by William Wordsworth
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:
O raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
First read on Classic Poetry Aloud: 21 May, 2007
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Opportunity by James Elroy Flecker
Fri, Apr 25, 2008
Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Opportunity
by James Elroy Flecker (1884 ? 1915)
From Machiavelli
"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced,
O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal
Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"
"I am that maid whose secret few may steal,
Called Opportunity. I hasten by
Because my feet are treading on a wheel,
Being more swift to run than birds to fly.
And rightly on my feet my wings I wear,
To blind the sight of those who track and spy;
Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair
To veil my face, and down my breast to fall,
Lest men should know my name when I am there;
And leave behind my back no wisp at all
For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide
So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."
"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?"
"Penitence. Mark this well that by decree
Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.
And thou hast spent much time in talk with me
Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand,
Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see
How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."
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His Books by Robert Southey
Fri, Apr 25, 2008
Southey read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
His Books
by Robert Southey (1774 ? 1843)
My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
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The Way Through The Woods by Rudyard Kipling
Wed, Apr 23, 2008
Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/
Giving voice to classic poetry.
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The Way Through The Woods
by Rudyard Kipling
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods...
But there is no road through the woods.
First aired 16 July 2007
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The Seven Ages of Man (All the World?s a Stage) by William Shakespeare
Tue, Apr 22, 2008
Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Seven Ages of Man
from As You Like It by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Mark Anthony?s Funeral Speech from Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare
Sat, Apr 19, 2008
Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
---------------------------------------------
Mark Anthony?s Funeral Speech
from Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
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Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare
Sat, Apr 19, 2008
Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Sonnet 116
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
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Introduction to Shakespeare Week
Fri, Apr 18, 2008
Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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On Quoting Shakespeare
by Bernard Levin (1928 ? 2004)
If you cannot understand my argument, and declare ``It's Greek to me'', you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.
from Macbeth
by William Shakespeare (1564 ? 1616)
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
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The Retreat by Henry Vaughan
Thu, Apr 17, 2008
Vaughan read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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The Retreat
by Henry Vaughan (1621 ? 1695)
Happy those early days, when I
Shin'd in my Angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white celestial thought:
When yet I had not walk'd above
A mile or two from my first Love,
And looking back?at that short space?
Could see a glimpse of His bright face:
When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r,
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity:
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My Conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to ev'ry sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence th' enlightned spirit sees
That shady City of Palm-trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.
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An Epitaph by Andrew Marvell
Wed, Apr 16, 2008
Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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An Epitaph
by Andrew Marvell (1621 ? 1678)
Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!
'Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship which, living, she declined,
When dead, to offer were unkind:
Nor can the truest wit, or friend,
Without detracting, her commend.
To say?she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,
She summ'd her life up every day;
Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
?'Tis true; but all too weakly said.
'Twas more significant, she's dead.
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Immortality by Matthew Arnold
Tue, Apr 15, 2008
Arnold read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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Immortality
by Matthew Arnold (1822 ? 1888)
(Mathew Arnold died on this day ? 15 April ? in 1888.)
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn
The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they,
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day,
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing - only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
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Claire de Lune by Paul Verlaine
Mon, Apr 14, 2008
Verlaine read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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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.
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How Sweet it is to Love by John Dryden
Sat, Apr 12, 2008
Dryden read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
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How Sweet it is to Love
by John Dryden (1631 ? 1700)
(John Dryden became Poet Laureate on this day ? 13 April ? in 1668.)
Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay |