Classic Poetry Aloud

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To learn a little more about the poems and poets on each poetry reading, join the mailing list. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 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, insteadYou 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 waitThat you should open first the wooden gate.

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, insteadYou 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 waitThat you should open first the wooden gate.

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! For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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! For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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 (continued)

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 (continued)

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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! For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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! For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.

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. For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. To be notified of new postings, and to receive some extra, short text about each poetry reading, join the mailing list.