Classic Audiobook Collection - Collected Poems by Rupert Brooke ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

Starting point is 00:00:00 the collected poems of rupert brook poem number one second best here in the dark o heart alone with the enduring earth and night and silence and the warm strange smell of clover clear visioned though it break you far apart from the dead best the dear and old delight throw down from the dead best the dear and old delight throw down your dreams of immortality, O faithful, O foolish lover. Here's peace for you and surety. Hear the one, wisdom, the truth. All day the good glad sun showers love and labor on you, wine and song, the green wood laughs, the wind blows all day long till night. And night ends all things.

Starting point is 00:01:02 Then shall be no lamp relumed in heaven, no voices crying, or changing lights, or dreams and forms that hover, and heart, for all your sighing, that gladness, and those tears are over, over. And has the truth brought no new hope at all, heart, that you're weeping yet for paradise? Do they still whisper, the old weary cries, Mid- Youth and Song, feasting and carnival, Through laughter, through the roses, as of old, Comes death on shadowy and relentless feet. Death, unappeasable by prayer or gold. Death is the end, the end.

Starting point is 00:01:59 Proud then, clear-eyed and low. laughing, go to greet death as a friend. Exile of immortality, strongly wise, strain through the dark with undesirous eyes to what may lie beyond it. Sets your star, O heart, forever. Yet behind the night waits for the great unborn somewhere afar, some white tremendous daybreak. And the light returning shall give back the golden hours.

Starting point is 00:02:38 Ocean, a windless level, earth a lawn, spacious, and full of sunlit dancing places. And laughter, and music, And among the flowers the gay child-hearts of men, And the child faces. O heart! In the Great Dawn. End of poem number one, second best.

Starting point is 00:03:07 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number two of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Day that I have loved. Tenderly, Day that I have loved, I close your eyes and smooth your quiet brow and fold your thin, dead hands. The grey veils of the half-light deepen,

Starting point is 00:03:47 colour dies. I bear you a light burden to the shrouded sands, where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the seas-making, mist garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water-crowned. There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope, of waking, and over the unmoving sea without a sound, faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far gleaming and marble

Starting point is 00:04:27 sand. Beyond the shifting cold twilight, further than laughter goes or tears, further than dreaming, there'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands, but the drear waste darkening, and at length flame ultimate on the deep. O the last fire! And you, unkissed, unfriended there! Oh, the lone way's red ending, and we not there to weep! We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers, lovely and secret as a child. You came with us, came happily hand in hand with the young dancing hours, high on the downs at dawn. Void now and tenebrous, the grey sounds curve before me. From the inland meadows, fragrant of June and clover, floats the dark, and fills the hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadow.

Starting point is 00:05:39 and the white silence brims the hollow of the hills close in the nest is folded every weary wing hushed all the joyful voices and we who held you dear eastward we turn and homeward alone remembering day that i loved day that i loved day that i loved The Night is Here. End of Poem No. 2, Day That I Have Loved, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number three of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Sleeping Out Full Moon They Sleep within I cower to the earth, I waking, I only.

Starting point is 00:06:58 High and cold thou dreamest, O Queen, high dreaming and lonely. We have slept too long, who can hardly win the white one flame and the night long crying. The viewless passes, the world's low sighing, with desire, with yearning, to the fire. fire unburning to the heatless fire, to the flameless ecstasy. Helpless, I lie, and around me the feet of thy watchers tread, there is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head, an intolerable radiance of wings. All the earth grows fire, white lips of desire, brushing cool on the fire, brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things.

Starting point is 00:07:55 Earth fades, and the air is thrilled with ways, Dewey paths full of comfort and radiant bands. The gracious presence of friendly hands help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays, stretching wavering hands up, up, through the praise of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries to all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height, to the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes, and the laughter and the lips of light.

Starting point is 00:08:40 End of poem number three, sleeping out full moon, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Number 4 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. In examination, Lo, from quiet skies, in through the window, my lord the sun. And my eyes were dazzled and drunk with the misty gold, the golden glory that drowned and crowned me, eddied and swayed through the room. Around me to left and to right hunched figures and old,

Starting point is 00:09:38 dull, blear-eyed, scribbling fools grew fair, ringed round and haloed with holy light. Flame lit on their hair, and their burning eyes grew young and wise, each as a god or king of kings, white-robed and bright, still scribbling all, and a full tumultuous murmur of wings grew through the hall, and I knew the white undying fire,

Starting point is 00:10:13 and through open portals, jire on gyre, archangels and angels, adoring, bowing, and a face unshaded. till the light faded and they were but fools again fools unknowing still scribbling blear-eyed and stolid immortals end of poem number four in examination from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain poem number five of the collected poems of rupert brook read for librivox dot by Graham Redmond. Pine trees and the sky, evening. I'd watch the sorrow of the evening sky,

Starting point is 00:11:20 and smelt the sea and earth and the warm clover, and heard the waves and the sea-gulls mocking cry. And in them all was only the old cry, that song they always sing, The best is over. You may remember now, and think, and sigh, oh, silly, lover. And I was tired and sick that all was over, and because I, for all my thinking, never could recover one moment of the good hours that were over. And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.

Starting point is 00:12:09 then from the sad west turning wearily i saw the pines against the white north sky very beautiful and still and bending over their sharp black heads against a quiet sky and there was peace in them and i was happy and forgot to play the lover and laughed and did no longer wish to die being glad of you o pine trees and the sky end of poem number five pine trees and the sky evening from the collected poems of rupert brooke this recording is in the public domain Poem number six of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Wagner creeps in, half wanton, half asleep, one with a fat, wide, hairless face. He likes love music that is cheap, likes women in a crowded place, and wants to hear the noise they're making. His heavy eyelids droop half over, Great pouches swing beneath his eyes.

Starting point is 00:13:47 He listens, thinks himself the lover, Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs. He likes to feel his hearts are breaking. The music swells, his gross legs quiver, His little lips are bright, with slime. The music swells, the women shiver, and all the while in perfect time his pendulous stomach hangs as shaking. End of poem number six, Wagner, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number seven of the collected poems of Rupert

Starting point is 00:14:43 Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The vision of the archangels. Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world, trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky, bearing with quiet even steps and great wings feld, a little dingy coffin where a child must lie, it was so tiny. Yet you had fancied God could never have bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight,

Starting point is 00:15:24 and shut him in that lonely shell to drop forever into the emptiness and silence into the night. They then from the sheer summit cast and watched it fall through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin, and therein God's little pitiful body lying, worn and thin, and curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower-petal, till it was no more visible, then turned again, with sorrowful, quiet faces, downward to the plain. End of Poem Number 7, The Vision of the Archangels from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number eight of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 00:16:35 Seaside Swiftly, out from the friendly lilt of the band, the crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of the Men, I am drawn nightward. I must turn again where, down beyond the low, untrodden strand, their curves and glimmers outward to the unknown, the old, unquiet ocean. All the shade is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone here on the edge of silence, half afraid, waiting a sign. in the deep heart of me the sullen waters swell towards the moon and all my tides sets seaward from inland leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune that tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand and dies between the sea-wall and the sea

Starting point is 00:17:45 End of Poem No. 8. Seaside from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number nine of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. On the death of Smet Smet, the Hippopotamus Goddess. Song of a tribe of the ancient Egyptians. The priests within the temple. She was wrinkled and huge and hideous.

Starting point is 00:18:31 She was our mother. She was lustful and lewd. But a god, we had none other. In the day she was hidden and dumb, but at nightfall moaned in the shade, we shuddered and gave her her will in the darkness. We were afraid. the people without she sent us pain and we bowed before her she smiled again and bad us adore her

Starting point is 00:19:05 she solaced our woe and soothed our sighing and what shall we do now god is dying the priests within She was hungry and ate our children. How should we stay her? She took our young men and our maidens, ours to obey her. We were loathed and mocked and reviled of all nations. That was our pride. She fed us, protected us, loved us, and killed us. Now she has died, the people without.

Starting point is 00:19:52 She was so strong, but death is stronger. She ruled us long, but time is longer. She solaced our woe and soothed our sighing, And what shall we do now God is dying? End of poem number nine, On the death of Smet Smet, the hippopotamus goddess, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:20:34 Poem number ten of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The Song of the Pilgrims Halted around the fire by night after moonset, they sing this beneath the trees. What light of unremembered skies hast thou relumed within our eyes, thou whom we seek, whom we shall find. A certain odor on the wind, thy hidden face beyond the west, these things have called us,

Starting point is 00:21:13 on a quest older than any road we trod, more endless than desire. Far God, sigh with thy cruel voice that fills the soul with longing, for dim hills and faint horizons. For there come grey moments of the ancient dumb, sickness of travel, when those song can shear us, but the way seems long, and one remembers. Are the beat of weary, unreturning feet, and songs of pilgrims unreturning. The fires we left are always burning on the old shrines of home, our kin have built them temples, and therein pray to the gods we know, and dwell in little houses lovable, being happy. We remember how, and peaceful even to death. O thou, God, of all long desirous roaming, our hearts are sick of fruitless homing, and crying after

Starting point is 00:22:27 lost desire. Hearten us onward, as with fire consuming dreams of other bliss. The best thou givest, giving this sufficient thing to travel still over the plain beyond the hill, unhesitating through the shade, amid the silence unafraid, till at some sudden turn one sees against the black and muttering trees thine altar wonderfully white among the forests of the night end of poem number ten the song of the pilgrims from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain poem number eleven of the collected poems of rupert brook read for librivox dot org by graham redmond The Song of the Beasts sung on one night in the cities in the darkness.

Starting point is 00:23:42 Come away, come away, you are sober and dull through the common day, but now it is night. It is shameful night, and God is asleep. Have you not felt the quick fires that creep through the hungry flesh and the lust of delight, and hot secrets of dreams that day cannot say. The house is dumb. The night calls out to you.

Starting point is 00:24:10 Come, our come, down the dim stairs through the creaking door, naked crawling on hands and feet. It is meat, it is meat. Ye are men no longer, but less and more, beast and God. down the lampless street by little black ways in secret places in darkness and mire faint laughter around and evil faces by the star glint scene ah follow with us for the darkness whispers a blind desire and the fingers of night are amorous keep close as we speed though mad whispers woo you and hot hands cling and the touch on the smell of bare-flesh sting, soft flank by your flank and side-brushing side. Tonight, never heed. Unswerving and silent follow with me, till the city ends sheer,

Starting point is 00:25:13 and the crooked lanes open wide, out of the voices of night, beyond lust and fear, to the level waters of moonlight, to the level waters quiet and clear, to the black unresting plains of the calling sea. End of poem number 11, the Song of the Beasts, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 12 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 00:25:58 Failure Because God put his adamantine fate between my sullen heart and its desire. I swore that I would burst the iron gate, rise up and curse him on his throne of fire. Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy, but love was as a flame about my feet. Proud up the golden stair I strode,

Starting point is 00:26:29 and beat thrice on the gate, and entered with a cry. All the great courts were quiet in the sun, and full of vacant echoes. Moss had grown over the glassy pavement and begun to creep within the dusty council halls. An idle wind blew round an empty throne, and stirred the heavy curtains on the walls. End of poem number twelve, failure, from the collected. poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:27:19 Poem number 13 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Ante Aram Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper, chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies, incense of dirges, prayers that I, as holy myr. Our goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low sighs, weary at last to thee would come the feet that err, and empty hearts groan tired of the world's vanities. How fair this cool, deep silence to a wanderer, deaf with the roar of winds along the open skies! Sweet after sting!

Starting point is 00:28:15 and bitter kiss of seawater, the pale Lethean wine within thy chalices. I come before thee, I, too tired wanderer, to heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries and evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift whir of terrible wings, I, least of all thy votaries, with a faint hope to see the scented darkness turn, and, parting, frame within its quiet mysteries, one face, with lips than autumn lilies tenderer, and voice more sweet than the far-plaint of vials is, or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player. End of poem number thirteen, Ante Aram from the collective poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:29:15 Poem number 14 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond Dawn From the train between Bologna and Milan Second Class Opposite me two Germans snore and sweat Through sullen swirling gloom we jolt and roar We have been here forever

Starting point is 00:29:51 Even yet a dim watch tells two hours, two eons more. The windows are tight shut and slimy wet with a night's feeder. There are two hours more, two hours to dawn and Milan. Two hours yet. Opposite me to Germans sweat and snore. One of them wakes and spits. and sleeps again. The darkness shivers. A one light through the rain strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere a new day sprawls, and inside the foul air is chill and damp,

Starting point is 00:30:40 and fowler than before. Opposite me, two Germans sweat and snore. End of poem number 14, Dawn, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 15 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. The Call Out of the nothingness of sleep, the slow dreams of eternity, there was a thunder on the deep. I came because you called to me. I broke the night's primeval bars, I dared the old abysmal curse,

Starting point is 00:31:39 and flashed through ranks of frightened stars, suddenly on the universe. The eternal silences were broken. Hell became heaven as I passed. What shall I give you as a token, a sign that we have met? at last. I'll break and forge the stars anew, shatter the heavens with a song, immortal in my love for you, because I love you very strong. Your mouth shall mock the old and wise. Your laugh shall fill the

Starting point is 00:32:19 world with flame. I'll write upon the shrinking skies the scarlet splendor of your name, till heaven cracks and hell thereunder dies in her ultimate mad fire and darkness falls with scornful thunder on dreams of men and men's desire then only in the empty spaces death walking very silently shall fear the glory of our faces through all the dark infinity So, clothed about with perfect love, the eternal end shall find us one, alone above the night, above the dust of the dead gods alone. End of poem number 15, The Call, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 16 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read,

Starting point is 00:33:35 for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Wayfarers. Is it the hour? We leave this resting place, made fair by one another for a while. Now, for a godspeed, one last mad embrace. The long road, then, unlit by your faint smile. Ah, the long road. And you so far away.

Starting point is 00:34:07 Oh, I'll remember, but each crawling day will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile dull the dear pain of your remembered face. Do you think there's a far-border town somewhere, the desert's edge, last of the lands we know, some gaunt eventual limit of our light in which i'll find you waiting and we'll go together hand in hand again out there into the waste we know not into the night End of Poem No. 16, The Wayfarers from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 17 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The Beginning

Starting point is 00:35:15 Some day I shall rise and leave my friends and seek you again through the world's far ends, you whom I found so fair, touch of your hands and smell of your hair, my only God in the days that were. My eager feet shall find you again, though the sullen years and the mark of pain have changed you wholly. For I shall know, how could I forget having loved you so, in the sad half-light of evening, the face that was all my sun-rising. So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand and hold you fiercely by either hand, and seeing your age and ashen hair, I'll curse the thing that once you were, because it is changed and pale and old, lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold.

Starting point is 00:36:19 And I loved you before you were old. and wise, when the flame of youth was strong in your eyes. And my heart is sick with memories. End of poem number 17, The Beginning, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 18 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet, O Death Will Find Me Long Before I Tire.

Starting point is 00:37:08 O Death will find me long before I tire of watching you, and swing me suddenly into the shade and loneliness and mire of the last land. There, waiting patiently, one day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing, see a slow light across the Stygian tide, and hear the dead about me stir, unknowing, and tremble, and I shall know that you have died, and watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, pass light as ever through the lightless host. Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam, most individual and bewildering ghost, and turn and toss your brown delightful head amusedly among the ancient dead.

Starting point is 00:38:11 End of poem number 18. Oh, Death Will Find Me Long Before I Tire, From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 19 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet, I said I splendidly loved you, it's not true. I said I splendidly loved you.

Starting point is 00:38:50 It's not true. Such long, swift tides stir not a landlocked sea. On gods or fools the high risk falls. On you. The clean, clear, bitter sweet, that's not for me. Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist. Love is flung Lucifer-like from heaven to hell. But there are wanderers in the middle mist who cry for shadows, clutch,

Starting point is 00:39:24 And cannot tell whether they love at all, or loving whom. An old-song's lady, a fool in fancy dress, or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom for love of love or from heart's loneliness pleasures not theirs nor pain they doubt and sigh and do not love at all of these am i end of poem number nineteen i said i splendidly loved you it's not true from the collected poems of rupert brought This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Success. I think if you had loved me when I wanted, if I had looked up one day and seen your eyes and found my wild sick, blasphemous prayer granted, and your brown face that's full of pity, and wise flushed suddenly. The white godhead in new fear, intolerably so struggling and so

Starting point is 00:40:56 shamed. Most holy and far, if you had come all too near, if earth had seen earth's lordliest wild limbs, tamed, shaken and trapped, and shivering from my touch, myself should I have slain, or that foul you. But this the strange gods, who had given so much to have seen and known you, this they might not do. One last shame spared me,

Starting point is 00:41:32 one black words unspoken, and I'm alone, and you have not awoken. End of poem number twenty, success, from the collected poems of rome, Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number twenty-one of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by

Starting point is 00:42:07 Graham Redman. Dust When the white flame in us is gone, and we that lost the world's delight stiffen in darkness, left alone to crumble in our separate night, when your swift, hair is quiet in death, and through the lips corruption thrust has stilled the labor of my breath, when we are dust, when we are dust. Not dead, not undesirous yet, still sentient, still unsatisfied, we'll ride the air and shine and flit around the places where we died, and dance as dust before the sun, and light of foot and unconfined, hurry from road to road, and run about the errands of the wind. And every moat on earth or air will speed and gleam down later days, and like a secret pilgrim

Starting point is 00:43:15 fair by eager and invisible ways, nor ever rest, nor ever lie, till beyond thinking out of view, One moat of all the dust that's eye Shall meet one atom that was you. Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunsets after glow, The lovers in the flowers will find a sweet and strange, Unquiet grow upon the peace, And, past desiring, so high a beauty in the air,

Starting point is 00:43:51 And such a light, and such a quiet, and such a radiant ecstasy there they'll know not if it's fire or dew or out of earth or in the height singing or flame or scent or hue or two that pass in light to light out of the garden higher higher But in that instant they shall learn the shattering ecstasy of our fire, and the weak, passionless hearts will burn and faint in that amazing glow, until the darkness close above. And they will know, poor fools, they'll know, one moment what it is to love. from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 22 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Kindliness When love has changed to kindliness.

Starting point is 00:45:19 O love, our hungry lips that press so tight that times an old God's dream. dream nodding in heaven, and whisper stuff seven million years were not enough to think on after. Make it seem less than the breath of children playing, a blasphemy scarce worth the saying, a sorry jest, when love has grown to kindliness, to kindliness. And yet, the best that all, Either's known will change and wither, and be less at last, than comfort, or its own remembrance. And when some caress tendered in habit, once a flame all heaven sang out to, wakes the shame unworded in the steady eyes we'll have,

Starting point is 00:46:17 That day, what shall we do? Being so noble kill the two who've reached their second best. Being wise, break cleanly off and get away, follow down other windier skies, new lures, alone? Or shall we stay, since this is all we've known, content in the lean twilight of such day, and not remember, not lament? That time when all is over and hand never flinches, brushing hand, And blood lies quiet, for all your near, And it's but spoken words we hear, where trumpets sang, When the mere skies are stranger and nobler than your eyes, And flesh is flesh, was flame before, and infinite hungers leap no more in the chance swaying of your dress,

Starting point is 00:47:23 and love has changed to kindliness. End of poem number 22, Kindliness, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 23 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librevox. by Graham Redmond. Mummia As those of old drank Mummia to fire their limbs of lead,

Starting point is 00:48:08 Making dead kings from Africa stand pander to their bed, Drunk on the dead and medicineed with spiced imperial dust, In a short night they reeled to find ten centuries of lust. so i from paint stone tail and rhyme stuffed loves infinity and sucked all lovers of all time to rarify ecstasy helens the hair shuts out from me verona's livid skies gipsy the lips i press and see two antonies in your eyes the unheard invisible lovely dead lie with us in this place, and ghostly hands above my head, close face to straining face. Their blood is wine along our limbs, their whispering voices wreathed savage, forgotten drowsy hymns, under the names we breathe.

Starting point is 00:49:17 Woveen from their tomb, and one with it, the night wherein we press, their thousand pitchy pires have lit your flaming nakedness. For the uttermost years have cried and clung to kiss your mouth to mine, and hair long dust was caught, was flung, hand-shaken to hand divine, and life has fired and death not shaded all times uncounted bliss, and the height of the world has flamed and faded, Love, that our love be this. End of poem number 23, Mummier,

Starting point is 00:50:10 from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. The poem number 24 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The Fish In a cool, curving world he lies and ripples with dark ecstasies. The kind, luxurious lapse and steel shapes all his universe to feel and know and be. The clinging stream closes his memory, glooms his dream. who lips the roots or the shore, and glides superb on unreturning tides.

Starting point is 00:51:05 Those silent waters weave for him a fluctuant, mutable world and dim, where wavering masses bulge and gape mysterious, And shape to shape dies momently through wall and hollow, And form and line and solid follow, Solid and Line and Form, to dream fantastic down the eternal stream. An obscure world, a shifting world, bulbous or pulled to thin, or curled, or serpentine, or driving arrows,

Starting point is 00:51:42 or serene slidings, or march narrows. There, slipping wave and shore are one, and weed, and mud. No ray of sun, But glow to glow fades down the deep, As dream to unknown dream in sleep. Shaken translucency illunes the hyaline of drifting glooms. The strange, soft-handed depth subdues drowned colour there, But black to hues, as death to living decomposes.

Starting point is 00:52:21 Red darkness of the heart of roses, Blue, brilliant from dead starless skies, and gold that lies behind the eyes, the unknown, unnameable, cyclist white, that is the essential flame of night, lustreless purple, hooded green, the myriad hues that lie between darkness and darkness. And all's one, gentle, embracing quiet,

Starting point is 00:52:53 The world he rests in, world he knows, perpetual curving. Only grows an eddy in that ordered falling, A knowledge from the gloom, A calling weed in the wave gleam in the mud. The dark fire leaps along his blood, Dateless and deathless, blind and still the intricate impulse works its will. His woven world drops back, And he, sans providence, sans memory, unconscious and directly driven, Fades to some dank, sufficient heaven.

Starting point is 00:53:36 O world of lips, oh world of laughter, where hope is fleet and thought flies after, Of lights in the clear night, Of cries that drift along the wave and rise thin to the glittering stars above, You know the hands, the eyes of love. The strife of limbs, the sightless clinging, The infinite distance, And the singing blown by the wind, A flame of sound, The gleam, the flowers,

Starting point is 00:54:11 And vast around the horizon, And the heights above, You know the sigh, the song of love. But there the night is close, and there darkness is cold and strange and bare, and the secret deeps are whisperless, and rhythm is all deliciousness, and joy is in the throbbing tide whose intricate fingers beat and glide in felt bewildering harmonies of trembling touch, and music is the exquisite knocking of the blood. is no more under the mud his bliss is older than the sun silent and straight the waters run the lights the cries the willows dim and the dark tide are one with him

Starting point is 00:55:13 End of Poem Number 24, The Fish, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 25 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Thoughts on the shape of the human body. How can we find? How can we rest? How can we be in gods, win, or peace being man. We the gaunt zanies of a witless fate Who love the unloving and the lover hate,

Starting point is 00:56:03 Forget the moment ere the moment slips, Kiss with blind lips that seek beyond the lips, Who want, and know not what we want, And cry with crooked mouths for heaven, And throw it by. Loves for completeness No perfection grows Twixt leg and arm

Starting point is 00:56:27 Elbow and ear and nose And joint and socket But unsatisfied sprawling desires Shapeless perverse Denied Finger with finger reeds We love and gape Fantastic shape to maizeed fantastic shape

Starting point is 00:56:48 straggling irregular perplexed embossed grotesquely twined extravagantly lost by cretive paths and strange protuberant ways from sanity and from wholeness and from grace how can love triumph how can solace be where fever turns toward fever knee toward knee could we but but fill to harmony, and dwell simple as our thought and as perfectable, rise disentangled from humanity, strange, whole, and new into simplicity, grow to a radiant round love, and bear unfluctuant passion for some perfect sphere. love moon to moon unquestioning, and be like the star lunisiqua, steadfastly following the round, clear orb of her delight, patiently ever, through the eternal night. End of poem number twenty-five, thoughts on the shape of the human body, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.

Starting point is 00:58:10 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 26 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman Flight Voices out of the shade that cried, and long noon in the hot, calm places, and children's play by the wayside, and country eyes and quiet faces, all these were round my steady paces.

Starting point is 00:58:51 Those that I could have loved went by me. Cool-gardened homes slept in the sun. I heard the whisper of water nigh me, saw hands that beckoned shone were gone in the green and gold. And I went on. For if my echoing footfalls slept, Soon a far whispering there'd be of a little lonely wind that crept from tree to tree, and distantly followed me, followed me.

Starting point is 00:59:26 But the blue vaporous end of day brought peace, and pursuit baffled quite, where between pine woods dipped the way. I turned, slipped in, and out of sight. I trod as quiet as the night. The pine bowls kept perpetual hush, and in the by and in the boughs, and in the bough, and I trod, and I trod as quiet as the night. wind never swirled. I found a flowering lowly bush, and bowed, slid in, and sighed and curled, hidden at rest from all the world. Safe. I was safe and glad I knew. Yet, with cold heart and cold wet brows I lay, and the dark fell. There grew mewood a sound of shaken boughs And ceased above my intricate house And silence, silence, silence found me

Starting point is 01:00:30 I felt the unfaltering movement creep among the leaves They shed around me calm clouds of scent That I did weep And stroked my face, I fell asleep. End of poem number 26. Flight from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:01:12 Poem number 27 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The Hill 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.

Starting point is 01:01:45 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 one. 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.

Starting point is 01:02:25 to say and then you suddenly cried and turned away end of poem number twenty-seven the hill from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain poem number twenty eight of the collected poems of rupert brook read for librivox dot org by graham redman the one before the last i dreamt i was in love again with the one before the last and smiled to greet the pleasant pain of that innocent young past but i jumped to feel how sharp had been the pain when it did live how the faded dreams of nineteen ten were hell in nineteen five the boy's woe was as keen and clear the boy's love just as true and the one before the last my dear hurt quite as much as you sickly i pondered how the lover wrongs the unanswering tomb and sentimentalizes over what earned a better doom gently he tombs the poor dim last time, strews pinkish dust above, and sighs the dear dead boyish pastime. But this our God is love. Better oblivion hide dead true loves, better than night enfold, than men to eke the praise of new loves, should lie about the old. Oh, bitter thoughts I had in plenty,

Starting point is 01:04:24 but here's the worst of it. I shall forget in 1920. You ever hurt a bit. End of poem number 28, the one before the last, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 29 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. The Jolly Company The stars, a Jolly Company, I envied, straying late and lonely, And cried upon their revelry, O white companionship, You only in love, in faith unbroken well, friends radiant and inseparable.

Starting point is 01:05:27 Light heart and glad they seemed to me, and merry Comrade. even so god out of heaven may laugh to see the happy crowds and never know that in his lone obscure distress each walketh in a wilderness but i remembering pitied well and loved them who with lonely light in empty infinite spaces dwell disconsolate for all the night i heard the theme In gnat voices cry, star to faint star, across the sky. End of poem number 29, the jolly company, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 30 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Life Beyond

Starting point is 01:06:41 He wakes, who never thought to wake again, Who held the end was death. He opens eyes slowly to one long, livid oozing plain, Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies, and waits, And once in timeless six amised, Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand, like a dry branch.

Starting point is 01:07:14 No life is in that land, himself not lives, but is a thing that cries, an unmeaning point upon the mud, a speck of moveless horror, an immortal one cleansed of the world sentient and dead, a fly fast stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck. I thought when, love for you died, I should die. It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on. End of poem number

Starting point is 01:07:58 30, The Life Beyond, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 31 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Lines written in the belief that the ancient Roman festival of the dead was called Ambar Valia. Swings the way still by hollow and hill and all the worlds a song. She's far, it sings me, but fair, it rings me, Quiet, it laughs, and strong. O spite of the miles and years between us, spite of your chosen part,

Starting point is 01:08:59 I do remember, and I go with laughter in my heart. So above the little folk that know not, Out of the white hill-town, High up I clamber, and I remember, And watch the day go down. Gold is my heart, and the world's golden, and one peak tipped with light, and the air lies still about the hill with the first fear of night, till mystery down the soundless valley thunders, and dark is here,

Starting point is 01:09:37 and the wind blows, and the light goes, and the night is full of fear. And I know one night, on some far height, in the tongue I never knew, I yet shall hear the tidings clear from them that were friends of you. They'll call the news from hill to hill, dark and uncomforted, earth and sky and the winds, and I shall know that you are dead. I shall not hear your trantles, nor eat your arval bread, For the kin of you will surely do their duty by the dead. Their little dull, greasy eyes will water, They'll pour you, and gulp afresh, They'll sniffle and weep,

Starting point is 01:10:29 And their thoughts will creep like flies on the cold flesh. They will put pence on your grey eyes, bind up your fallen chin, and lay you straight, the fools that loved you, because they were your kin. They will praise all the bad about you, and hush the good away, and wonder how they'll do without you, and then they'll go away. But quieter than one sleeping, and stranger than of old, you will not stir for weeping, you will not mind the cold. But through the night the lips will laugh not, the hands will be in place, and at length the hair be lying still about the quiet face. With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief, and dim and decorous mirth, with ham and sherry,

Starting point is 01:11:30 they'll meet to bury the lordliest lass of earth. The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving behind lone riding you, the heart so high, the heart so living, heart that they never knew. I shall not hear your trentles, nor eat your arvalbred, nor with smug breath tell lies of death, to the unanswering dead. With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief,

Starting point is 01:12:06 the folk who loved you not will bury you and go wandering back home, and you will rot. But laughing, and halfway up to heaven with wind and hill and star, I yet shall keep before I sleep, your amber valia. End of Poem No. 31. Lines written in the belief that the ancient Roman festival of the dead was called Ambar Valia from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 32 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Dead men's love

Starting point is 01:13:07 There was a damned successful poet, there was a woman like the sun, and they were dead. They did not know it, they did not know their time was done. They did not know his hymns were silence, and her limbs that had served love so well, dust and a filthy smell. And so one day, as ever of old, hands out, they hurried, knee to knee, On fire to cling and kiss and hold, And in the other's eyes, to see each his own tiny face, And in that long embrace feel lip and breast grow warm

Starting point is 01:13:55 To breast and lip and arm. So knee to knee they sped again, and laughed to laugh they ran, I'm told, across the streets of hell. And then they suddenly felt the wind blow cold, and knew, so closely pressed, chill air on lip and breast, and with a sick surprise, the emptiness of eyes. End of poem number 32, Dead Men's Love, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 33 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for librivox.org by Graham Redman. Town and Country Here, where love stuff is body, arm and side,

Starting point is 01:15:07 stabbing sweet against chair and lamp and wall. In every touch, more intimate meanings hide, And flaming brains are the white heart of all. Here million pulses to one centre beat. Closed in by men's vast friendliness, alone, Two can be drunk with solitude, And meet on the sheer point where, with knowing's one.

Starting point is 01:15:40 Here the green-purple, clanging royal night, and the straight lines and silent walls of town, and roar and glare and dust, and myriad white undying passes, pinnacle and crown intensest heavens between close-lying faces, by the lamp's airless fierce, ecstatic fire, and we found love in little hidden places, under great shades, between the mist and mire.

Starting point is 01:16:18 Stay, though the woods are quiet and you've heard night creep along the hedges, never go where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird, and the remote winds sigh, and waters flow, Lest, as our words fall dumb on windless noons, Or hearts grow hushed and solitary, Beneath unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons, Or boughs bend over, close and quiet as death, Unconscious and Unconscious and Unpassionate and still, Cloud-like we lean and stare, As bright leaves stare, And gradually along the stranger-hanger hill, Our Unwounder walled loves thin out on vacuous air. And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss, and your lit upward face grows where we lie, lonelier and dreadfuler than sunlight is, and dumb and mad and eyeless, like the sky. End of poem number 33, town and country from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:17:46 Poem number 34 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Paralysis For moveless limbs no pity I crave that never was swift. Still all I prize, laughter, and thought and friends I have. No fool to heave luxurious sighs for the woods and hills that I never knew. The more excellent ways yet mine. And you, flower-laden, come to the clean white cell, and we talk as ever. Am I not the same? With our hearts we love, immutable, you without pity,

Starting point is 01:18:35 I, without shame. We talk as of old. As of old, you go out under the sky, and, laughing, I know, flit through the streets, your heart all me, till you gain the world beyond the town. Then, I fade from your heart quietly, and your fleet steps quicken,

Starting point is 01:19:02 the strong down smiles you welcome there, the woods that love you, close lovely and conquering arms above you. O ever moving, oh lithe and free, fast in my linen prison I press on impossible bars, or emptily laugh in my great loneliness, and still in the white neat bed I strive most impotently against that jive, being less now than a thought even, to you alone with your hills and heaven. End of poem number 34, paralysis, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 35 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, Redford Librevox.org by Graham Redmond.

Starting point is 01:20:10 menelaus and helen hot through troy's ruin menelaus broke to priam's palace sword in hand to sate on that adulterous whore a ten years hate and a king's honour through red death and smoke and cries and then by quiet a ways he strode till the still innermost chamber fronted him he swung his sword and crashed into the dim luxurious bower flaming like a god high sat white helen lonely and serene he had not remembered that she was so fair and that her neck curved down in such a way and he felt tired he flung the sword away and kissed her feet and knelt before her there, the perfect night before the perfect queen. So far, the poet, how should he behold that journey home, the long connubial years? He does not tell you how white Helen bears child on legitimate child, becomes a scold, haggard with virtue.

Starting point is 01:21:34 Manilaeus bold, waxed gaudulous, and sacked a hundred troyes, twiress, and sacked a hundred troy's twixt noon and supper, and her golden voice got shrill as he grew deffer, and both were old. Often he wonders why on earth he went, Troywood, or why poor Paris ever came, oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent, her dry shanks twitch at Paris mumbled name. So many layers nagged, and Helen cried, and Paris slid her Paris slid. on by Scamander Side. End of poem number 35, Menelaus and Helen,

Starting point is 01:22:18 from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 36 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Libido This poem is also known as lust. How should I know? The enormous wheels of will drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.

Starting point is 01:22:58 Night was void arms, and you a phantom still, and day your far light swaying down the street. As never fool for love, I starved for you. My throat was dry, and my eye. eyes hot to sea. Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, and your remembered smell most agony. Love wakens love. I felt your hot wrist shiver, and suddenly the mad victory I planned flashed real in your burning, bending head. My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river. in shadow, and my heart beneath your hand quieter than a dead man on a bed. End of poem number 36, libido, also known as lust, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:24:16 Poem number 37 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Grae. Redmond. Jealousy. When I see you, who were so wise and cool, gazing with silly sickness on that fool you've given your love to, Your adoring hands touch his so intimately that each understands, I know, most hidden things, and when I know your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow of his red lips, and that the empty grace of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face has beaten your heart to such a flame of love

Starting point is 01:25:08 that you have given him every touch and move, wrinkle and secret of you, all your life. Oh, then I know I know I'm. I'm waiting, love a wife, for the great time when love is at a close, and all its fruits to watch the thickening nose and sweaty neck and dulling face and eye that are yours and you, most surely, till you die. Day after day you'll sit with him, and note the greasedier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat, the dingy, wrinkling coat. as prettiness turns to pomp and strength to fat, and love, love, love, to habit.

Starting point is 01:26:00 And after that, when all that's fine in man is at an end, And you that loved young life and clean, must tend a foul, sick, fumbling, dribbling body and old, when his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold slobber, and you're enduring that worst thing, Sinility's queasy, furtive love-making, and searching those dear eyes for human meaning, propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning a scrap that life's flung by and loves forgotten, then you'll be tired and passion dead and rotten and he'll be dirty dirty oh lithe and free and light foot that the poor heart cries to see that's how i'll see your man and you but you oh when that time comes you'll be dirty too End of Poem No. 37. Jealousy from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 01:27:16 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 38 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Blue Evening My Restless Blood Now Lies a Quibber, knowing that always exquisitely this April twilight on the river stirs anguish in the heart of me. For the fast world in that rare glimmer puts on the witchery of a dream,

Starting point is 01:27:58 the straight grey buildings richly dimmer, the fiery windows, and the stream with willows leaning quietly over, the still ecstatic fading skies. And all these, like a waiting lover, murmur and gleam lift lustrous eyes drift close to me and sideways bending whisper delicious words but i stretch terrible hands uncomprehending shaken with love and laugh and cry my agony made the willows quiver i heard the knocking of my heart die loudly down the wind river. I heard the pale skies fall apart, and the shrill stars unmeaning laughter, and my voice with the vocal trees weeping, and hatred followed after, shrilling madly down the breeze. In peace from the wild heart of clamour, a flower in moonlight she was there, was rippling down white ways of

Starting point is 01:29:16 Glamour quietly laid on wave and air. Her passing left no leaf a quiver. Pale flowers reethed her white-white brows. Her feet were silence on the river, and hush, she said, between the boughs. End of poem number 38, Blue Evening, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:29:57 Poem number 39 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The charm In darkness the loud sea makes moan And earth is shaken And all evils creep about her ways. Oh now to know you sleep Out of the whirling, blinding moyle, alone,

Starting point is 01:30:26 Out of the slow, grim fight, One thought to wing, To you asleep, in some cool room that's open to the night, Lying half forward, breathing quietly, One white hand on the white unrumpled sheet, And the ever-moving hair, Quiet and still at length. Your magic and you,

Starting point is 01:30:51 your beauty and your strength, like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree, sleeping prevail in earth and air. In the sweet gloom above the brown and white night, benedictions hover, and the winds of night move gently round the room and watch you there, and through the dreadful hours the trees and waters and the hills have kept the sacred vigil while you slept, and lay away of dew and flowers where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread. And still the darkness ebbs about your bed. Quiet and strange and loving kind you sleep. And holy joy about that. The earth is shed and holiness upon the deep.

Starting point is 01:31:51 End of poem number 39, the charm, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 40 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Finding From the candles and dumb shadows and the high-hackers and the high. house where love had died, I stole to the vast moonlight and the whispering life outside. But I found no lips of comfort, no home in the moon's light, I, little and lone and frightened in the unfriendly night, and no meaning in the voices.

Starting point is 01:32:47 Far over the lands and through the dark, beyond the ocean, I willed to think of, of you for i knew had you been with me i'd have known the words of night found peace of heart gone gladly in comfort of that light oh the wind with soft beguiling would have stolen my thought away and the night subtly smiling came by the silver way and the moon came down and danced to me and her robe was white and flying And trees bent their heads to me, mysteriously crying, And dead voices wept around me, And dead soft fingers thrilled, And the little gods whispered, But ever desperately I willed,

Starting point is 01:33:43 Till all grew soft and far and silent. And suddenly I've found you, White and radiant, Sleeping quietly, far out through the tides of darkness. And I there in that great light was alone no more, nor fearful, for there in the homely night was no thought else that mattered, and nothing else was true,

Starting point is 01:34:12 but the white fire of moonlight and a white dream of you. End of poem number forty, Finding, from the collected poems of moonlight of, Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 41 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Song Oh, love, they said, is king of kings, and triumph is his crown. Earth fades in flame before his wings, and sun and

Starting point is 01:35:04 and moon bow down. But that I knew would never do, and heaven is all too high. So whenever I meet a queen, I said, I will not catch her eye. O love, they said, and love, they said, The gift of love is this, a crown of thorns about thy head, and vinegar to thy kiss. But tragedy is not for me, and I'm content to be gay. So whenever I spied a tragic lady, I went another way.

Starting point is 01:35:48 And so I never feared to see you wander down the street, or come across the fields to me on ordinary feet. For what they'd never told me of, and what I never knew, It was that all the time, my love, love would be merely you. End of Poem No. 41. Song. From the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 42 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook

Starting point is 01:36:32 read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Voice Safe in the magic of my woods I lay, and watched the dying light. Faint in the pale high solitudes, and washed with rain and veiled by night, silver and blue and green were showing, and the dark woods grew darker still, and birds were hushed, and peace was growing, and quietness crept up the hill, and no wind was blowing. And I knew that this was the hour of knowing, and the night and the woods and you were one together, and I should find soon in the silence the hidden key

Starting point is 01:37:28 of all that had hurt and puzzled me. Why you were you, and the night was kind, and the woods were part of the heart of me. and there i waited breathlessly alone and slowly the holy three the three that i loved together grew one in the hour of knowing night and the woods and you and suddenly there was an uproar in my woods the noise of a fool in mock distress crashing and laughing and blindly going of ignorant feet and a swishing dress, and a voice profaning the solitudes. The spell was broken, the key denied me, and at length your flat, clear voice beside me mouthed cheerful, clear, flat platitudes.

Starting point is 01:38:32 You came and quacked beside me in the wood. You said, the view from here is very good, You said, it's nice to be alone a bit. And how the days are drawing out, you said. You said, the sun's pretty, isn't it? By God, I wish, I wish that you were dead. End of poem number forty-two, the voice from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. is in the public domain. Poem number 43 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Dining room tea.

Starting point is 01:39:36 When you were there, and you, and you, happiness crowned the night. I too, laughing and looking, one of all, I watched the quivering lamplight fall on plate and flowers, and pouring tea and cup and cloth. And they and we flung all the dancing moments by with jest and glitter. Lip and I flashed on the glory shone and cried, improvident, unmemoried, and fitfully, and like a flame, the light of laughter went and came. Proud in their careless transience moved the changing faces that I loved.

Starting point is 01:40:20 till suddenly and other whence i looked upon your innocence for lifted clear and still and strange from the dark woven flow of change under a vast and starless sky i saw the immortal moment lie one instant i an instant knew as god knows all and it and you i above time o blind could see in witless immortality i saw the marble cup the tea hung on the air an amber stream i saw the fires unglittering gleam the painted flame the frozen smoke no more the flooding lamp light broke on flying eyes and lips and hair, but lay, but slept unbroken there on stiller flesh and body breathless, and lips and laughter stayed and deathless, and words on which no silence grew. Light was more alive than you, for suddenly and other whence I looked on your magnificence. I saw the stillness and the light, and you, august, immortal, white, holy, and strange, and every glint posture and jest and thought and tint freed from the mark of transiency,

Starting point is 01:41:51 triumphant in eternity, emote, immortal. Days at length human eyes grew, mortal, mortal strength, wearied, and time began. to creep. Change closed about me like a sleep. Light glinted on the eyes I loved. The cup was filled, the bodies moved. The drifting petal came to ground. The laughter chimed its perfect round. The broken syllable was ended, and I, so certain and so friended, how could I cloud, or how distress the heaven of your unconsciousness, or shake at times sufficient spell, stammering of lights unutterable.

Starting point is 01:42:43 The eternal holiness of you, the timeless end, you never knew, the peace that lay, the light that shone. You never knew that I had gone a million miles away and stayed a million years. The laughter played unbroken round me, and the jest flashed on. And we that knew the best down wonderful hours grew happier yet. I sang at heart and talked and et, and lived from laugh to laugh, I too, When you were there, and you, and you.

Starting point is 01:43:27 End of poem number 43, Dining Room Tea, from the collected poems of VIII of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 44 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. The goddess in the wood. In a flowered dell, the Lady Venus stood, amazed with sorrow. Down the morning one far golden horn in the gold of trees and sun,

Starting point is 01:44:12 rang out and held and died. She thought the wood grew quieter, wing and leaf and pool of light forgot to dance. Dum lay the unfalling stream. Life one eternal instant rose in dream, clear out of time, poised on a golden height. Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour. The gold waves purled amidst the green above her, and a bird sang. With one sharp taken breath by sunlit branches and unshaken flower, the immortal limbs flashed to the human lover, and the immortal eyes to look on death. End of poem No. 44. The goddess in the wood from the collected poems of Rupert Bres.

Starting point is 01:45:14 Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 45 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. A channel passage. The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick, my cold gorge rose. The long sea rolled. I knew I must think hard of something, or be sick, and could think hard of only one thing, you. You, you alone could hold my fancy ever. And with you memories come, sharp pain and dole. Now there's a choice, heartache or tortured liver, A seasick body or a you-sick soul.

Starting point is 01:46:15 Do I forget you? Wretchings, twist and timely, old meat, good meals, brown gobbets up I throw. Do I remember, Akrid, return, and slimy, The sobs and slobber of a last year's woe? And still the sick ship rolls, Tis hard, I tell ye,

Starting point is 01:46:38 To choose twixt love and nausea, Heart and Belly. End of poem number forty-five, A Channel Passage From the Collected Poems of Rupert Broupert. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 46 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Victory

Starting point is 01:47:13 All night the ways of heaven were desolate, long roads across a gleaming empty sky. Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I alone, serene beyond all love or hate, terror or triumph, were content to wait, we silent and all-knowing. Suddenly swept through the heaven, low-crowching from on high, one horseman, downward to the earth's low gate. Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living, lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom hung, into the open. Down the supernal roads, with plumes at tossing, purple flags far-flung, rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving, thundered the black battalions of the gods. End of poem number forty-six, victory from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:48:26 Poem number 47 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Day and night. Through my heart's palace, thoughts unnumbered throng, and there, most quiet and, as a child, most wise, high-thrown do you sit and gracious. All day long, great hopes, gold-armoured, jester fantasies, and pilgrim dreams, and little beggar sighs, bow to your benediction, go their way, and the grave jewelled courtier memories, worship and love and tend you all the day. But when I sleep and all my thoughts go straying, when the high session of the day is ended, and darkness comes, then with the waning light,

Starting point is 01:49:34 by lilyd maidens on your way attended, proud from the wonted throne, superbly swaying, you, like a queen, pass out into the night. End of poem number 47, day and night, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 48 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Coriambics number one. Ah, not now, when desire burns and the wind calls,

Starting point is 01:50:28 and the sons of spring, light foot dance in the woods, Whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring. Ah, not now should you come, now when the road beckons and good friends call, where are songs to be safe, sung, fights to be fought, yea, and the best of all, love on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give. Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper and wine, I that have yet to live?

Starting point is 01:51:07 Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you, now when dawn in the blood, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue. I'll forget and be glad. Only at length, dear, when the great day ends, when love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung, and friends all are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven. Then, as alone I lie mid-death's gathering, winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow. Then may I hear the peace of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease in the silence of death. Then may I see dimly, and know a space, bending over me, last, light in the dark once, as of old, your face.

Starting point is 01:52:24 End of poem number 48, Coriambics number one, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 49 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Coriambics number two Here the flame that was ash, shrine that was void, lost in the haunted wood, I have tended and loved year upon year,

Starting point is 01:53:13 I in the solitude, waiting, quiet and glad-eyed in the dark, knowing that once a gleam glowed and went through the wood, Still I abode Strong in a golden dream Unrecaptured For I I that had faith Knew that a face

Starting point is 01:53:35 Would glance one day White in the dim woods And a voice call And a radiance Fill a grove And the fire suddenly leap And in the heart of it End of laboring you

Starting point is 01:53:50 Therefore I can't Get ready the altar, lit the flame burning apart. Face of my dreams vainly in vision white, gleaming down to me, lo, hopeless I rise now. For about midnight whispers grew through the wood suddenly, Strange cries in the boughs above, Grated, cries like a laugh. Silent and black then through the sacred grove. Great birds flew as a dream, troubling the leaves, passing at length. I knew, long expected and long loved, that afar, God of the dim wood you somewhere lay,

Starting point is 01:54:39 as a child sleeping, a child suddenly reft from mirth. White and wonderful yet, white in your youth, stretched upon foreign earth, God, immortal and dead. Therefore I go, never to rest or win peace and worship of you more, and the dumb wood and the shrine therein. End of poem number 49, Coriambics number two, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 01:55:19 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 50 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Desertion So light we were, so right we were, so fair faith shone, and the way was laid so certainly that when I'd gone, what dumb thing looked up at you? Was it something heard, or a sudden cry that meekly and without a word you broke the faith and strangely weakly slipped apart. You gave in, you the proud of heart, unbowed of heart. Was this, friend, the end of all that we could do?

Starting point is 01:56:19 And have you found the best for you, the rest for you? Did you learn so suddenly, and I not by, some whispered story that stole the glory from the sky and ended all the splendid dream and made you go so dully from the fight we know, the light we know. O faithless, the faith remains, and I must pass gay down the way and on alone. Under the grass you wait, the breeze moves in the trees and stirs, and calls, and covers you with white petals, with light petals. There it shall crumble, frail, and fair under the sun, O little heart, your brittle heart, till day be done, and the shadows gather,

Starting point is 01:57:15 Falling light, and white with dew, whisper and weep, and creep to you. Good sleep to you. End of Poem Number 50, Dersion, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 51 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. 1914, number one, peace. Now God be thanked, who has matched us with his own. hour, and caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, with hand made sure, clear eye,

Starting point is 01:58:15 and sharpened power, to turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, glad from a world grow old and cold and weary, leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, and half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, and all the little emptiness of love. Oh, we who have known shame, we have found release there, where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, not broken save this body, lost but breath, nothing to shake the laughing hearts long peace there, but only agony. and that has ending, and the worst friend and enemy is but death. End of poem number 51, 1914, number one, piece from the collected poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 01:59:25 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 52 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org. by Graham Redmond. 1914, number two, safety. Dear, of all happy in the hour, most blessed he who has found our hid security, assured in the dark tides of the world that rest, and heard our word, who is so safe as we? We have found safety with all things undiards,

Starting point is 02:00:14 the winds and mourning, tears of men and mirth, the deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying, and sleep and freedom, and the autumnal earth. We have built a house that is not four times throwing, we have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever. War knows no power. Safe shall be my going, secretly armed against all death's endeavour. Safe, though all safeties lost, safe where men fall. And if these poor limbs die, safest of all. End of poem number 52, 1914, number two. Safety from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 02:01:29 Poem number 53 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. 1914, number three, the dead. Blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead. There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But dying has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away, poured out the red sweet wine of youth, Gave up the years to be of work and joy,

Starting point is 02:02:09 And that unhoped serene that men call age, And those who would have been their sons, they gave. gave their immortality. Blow, bugles blow! They brought us for our dearth. Holiness lacked so long, and love and pain. Honor has come back as a king to earth, and paid his subjects with a royal wage.

Starting point is 02:02:42 And nobleness walks in our ways again, and we have come into our heritage. End of poem number 53, 1914, number three, The Dead, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 54 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook

Starting point is 02:03:21 read for Librivox.org by Graham Reddell. 1914, number four, the dead. These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, and sunset, and the colours of the earth. These had seen movement and heard music, known slumber and waking, loved, gone proudly friended, felt the quick stir of wonder,

Starting point is 02:04:06 sat alone, touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter and lit by the rich skies all day, and after Frost-wither gesture stays the waves that dance and wandering loveliness. He leaves of white unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, a width, a shining peace under the night. End of poem number 54, 1914, number four, The Dead, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 55 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond.

Starting point is 02:05:17 1914, number five, The Soldier. If I should die, think only this of me, that there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England. There shall be in that rich, earth a richer dust concealed, a dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, a body of England's, breathing English air, washed by the rivers, blessed by sons of home. And think, this heart all evil shed away, a pulse in the eternal mind, no less gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given. Her sights and sounds, dreams happy as her day,

Starting point is 02:06:17 and laughter learnt of friends and gentleness in hearts at peace under an English heaven. End of poem number 55, 1914 number five, the soldier, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 56 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Treasure When colour goes home into the eyes and lights that shine are shut again with dancing girls and sweet birds cries behind the gateways of the brain, and that no place which gave them birth shall close the rainbow and the rose.

Starting point is 02:07:25 Still may time hold some golden space, where I'll unpack that scented store of song and flower and sky and face, and count and touch, and turn them o'er, musing upon them. as a mother who has watched her children all the rich day through sits quiet-handed in the fading light when children sleep air night end of poem number 56 the treasure from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain Poem number 57 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke Read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman Tiare Tahiti

Starting point is 02:08:31 Mamua when our laughter ends and hearts and bodies brown as white are dust about the doors of friends or scent are blowing down the night Then, oh then the wise agree, comes our and our immortality. Mammoa there waits a land hard for us to understand. Out of time, beyond the sun, all are one in paradise. You and Pupere are one, and Tau, and the ungainly wise. There the eternals are, and there the good, the lovely, and the true, and types whose earthly copies were the foolish broken things we knew. There is the face whose ghosts we are, the real, the never-setting star, and the flower of which we love faint and fading shadows here. Never a tear,

Starting point is 02:09:39 but only grief, dance, but not the limbs that move. Songs in song shall disappear. In Instead of lovers, love shall be, for hearts immutability. And there, on the ideal reef, thunders the everlasting sea. And my laughter and my pain shall home to the eternal brain. And all lovely things they say meet in loveliness again. Miery's laugh, Teipo's feet, and the hands of man. Star's and sunlight there shall meet, Corals' hues and rainbows there, and Tejura's braided hair, And with the starred tiare's white, And white birds in the dark ravine,

Starting point is 02:10:35 And flamboyance ablaze at night, And jewels, and evenings after green, And dawns of pearl and gold and red, Mamua your lovely a head. and there'll no more be one who dreams under the ferns of crumbling stuff eyes of illusion mouth that seems all-time entangled human love and you'll no longer swing and sway divinely down the scented shade where feet to ambulation fade and moons are lost in endless day how shall we wind these wreaths of ours where there are neither heads nor flowers oh heaven's heaven but we'll be missing the palms and sunlight and the south and there's an end of the end of the there's an end, I think of kissing, when our mouths are one with mouth. Tau here, Mamua, crown the hair and come away. Here the calling of the moon and the whispering sense that stray about the idle warm lagoon. Haysen hand in human hand, down the dark,

Starting point is 02:11:55 the flowered way, along the whiteness of the sand, and in the water's soft caress, Wash the mind of foolishness, Mamoire, until the day. Spend the glittering moonlight there, pursuing down the soundless deep, limbs that gleam and shadowy hair, or floating lazy, half asleep. Dive and double and follow after, snare in flowers and kiss and call with lips that fade and human laughter, and faces individual well this side of paradise. There's little comfort in the wise.

Starting point is 02:12:42 End of poem number 57, Tiare Tahiti, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 58 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librevox.org. by Graham Redmond. Retrospect. In your arms was still delight,

Starting point is 02:13:18 quiet as a street at night. And thoughts of you, I do remember, were green leaves in a darkened chamber, were dark clouds in a moonless sky. Love in you went passing by, penetrative, remote, and rare, like a bird in the wide air, and as the bird it left no trace in the heaven of your face in your stupidity i found the sweet hush after a sweet sound

Starting point is 02:13:53 all about you was the light that dims the graying end of night desire was the unrisen sun joy the day not yet begun with tree whispering to tree without wind quietly Wisdom slept within your hair, and long-suffering was there, and in the flowing of your dress, undiscerning tenderness. And when you thought, it seemed to me infinitely and like a sea, about the slight world you had known, your vast unconsciousness was thrown. O Haven without wave or tide, Silence in which all songs have died, Holy Book where hearts are still, And home at length under the hill. O Mother quiet breasts of peace, Where love itself would faint and cease.

Starting point is 02:14:59 O infinite deep I never knew, I would come back, come back to you, find you as a pool unstirred kneel down by you and never a word lay my head and nothing said in your hands ungarlanded and a long watch you would keep and i should sleep and i should sleep end of poem number fifty eight retrospect from the collected poems of rupert brook This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 59 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. The Great Lover I have been so great a lover, filled my days so proudly with the splendour of love's praise,

Starting point is 02:16:13 the pain, the calm and the astonishment, desire illimitable. and still content, and all dear names men use, to cheat despair, for the perplexed and viewless streams that bear our hearts at random down the dark of life. Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife steals down, I would cheat drowsy death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star that outshone all the sons of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise, whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me high secrets, and in darkness knelt to see the innerable godhead of delight? Love is a flame.

Starting point is 02:17:14 beaconed the world's night a city and we have built it these and I an emperor we have taught the world to die so for their sakes I loved ere I go hence and the high cause of love's magnificence and to keep loyalties young I'll write those names golden forever eagles crying flames, and set them as a banner that men may know to dare the generations burn and blow out on the wind of time shining and streaming. These I have loved, white plates and cups clean gleaming, ringed with blue lines, and feathery, fairy dust, wet roofs, the lamplight, the strong crust of friendly bread, and many tasting food, rainbows, and the blue bitter smoke of wood, and radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers, and flowers themselves that sway through sunny hours, dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon, then the

Starting point is 02:18:40 cool kindliness of sheets that soon smooth away trouble, and the rough male kiss of blankets, grainy wood, live hair that is shining and free, blue massing clouds, the keen unpassioned beauty of a great machine, the benison of hot water, furs to touch, the good smell of old clothes, others such the comfortable smell of friendly fingers, hairs, fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers about dead leaves and last year's ferns. Dear names, and thousand other throng to me, Royal flames, sweet waters dimpling laugh from tap or spring, holes in the ground, and voices that do sing, voices in love. Voices in love. after two, and body's pain soon turned to peace, and the deep panting train,

Starting point is 02:19:49 firm sands, the little dulling edge of foam that browns and dwindles as the wave goes home, and washen stones, gay for an hour, the cold graveness of iron, moist black earthen mould, sleep and high places footprints in the dew and oaks and brown horse chestnuts glossy new and new peeled sticks and shining pools on grass all these have been my loves and these shall pass whatever passes not in the great hour nor all my passion all my have power to hold them with me through the gate of death. They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, break the high bond we made,

Starting point is 02:20:48 and sell love's trust and sacramented covenant to the dust. Oh, never a doubt but somewhere I shall wake, and give what's left of love again, and make new friends, now strangers. But the best I've known stays here and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown about the winds of the world, and fades from brains of living men, and dies. Nothing remains. Oh dear, my loves, oh faithless, once again this one last gift I give, that after men shall know and later lovers far removed praise you all these were lovely say he loved end of poem number fifty nine

Starting point is 02:21:55 the great lover from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain poem number sixty of the collected poems of rupert brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Heaven Fish fly replete in depth of June, dawdling away their watery noon, ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say they have their stream and pond, but is there anything beyond? This life cannot be all. they swear, for how unpleasant if it were. One may not doubt that somehow good shall come of water and of mud,

Starting point is 02:22:58 and sure the reverent I must see a purpose in liquidity. We darkly know, by faith, we cry, the future is not wholly dry. Mud unto mud. Death-ed is near, not here the appointed end, not here. But somewhere beyond space and time is wetter water, slimy as slime. And there they trust, there swimmeth one who swam ere rivers were begun, immense of fishy form and mind, squamous, omnipotent and kind, and under that almighty fin, the littlest fish may enter in. O never fly conceals a hook, fish say, in the eternal brook, But more than mundane weeds are there, and muds celestially fair, Fat caterpillars drift around, and paradisal grubs are found,

Starting point is 02:24:06 Unfading moths, immortal flies, and the worm that never dies. and in that heaven of all their wish there shall be no more land say fish end of poem number sixty heaven from the collected poems of rupert brook this recording is in the public domain poem number sixty one of the collected poems of rupert brook read for librivox.org by graham redmond Doubts When she sleeps, her soul, I know, Goes a wanderer on the air,

Starting point is 02:25:02 Wings where I may never go, Leaves her lying, still and fair, Waiting, empty, laid aside, Like a dress upon a chair. This I know, And yet I know, doubts that will not be denied. For if the soul be not in place, what has laid trouble in her face, and sits there nothing where and wise behind the curtains

Starting point is 02:25:31 of her eyes, what is it in the self-s eclipse, shadows, soft and passingly, about the corners of her lips, the smile that is essential she? And if the spirit be not there, why is fragrance in the hair. End of poem number 61. Doubts from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 62 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 02:26:23 There's wisdom in women. Oh, love is fair and love is rare, my dear. one she said, but love goes lightly over. I bowed her foolish head and kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she, so new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly. But there's wisdom in women of more than they have known, and thoughts go blowing through them are wiser than their own, or how should my dear one being ignorant and young have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue? End of poem number 62.

Starting point is 02:27:17 There's wisdom in women from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 63 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librived. Vox.org by Graham Redmond. He wonders whether to praise or to blame her. I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over. But if to praise or blame you, cannot say. For who decries the loved, decries the lover.

Starting point is 02:28:03 Yet what man lords the thing he's thrown away! Be you in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy nought, the more fool I so great a fool to adore. But if you're that high goddess once I thought, The more your godhead is, I lose the more. Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever. Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you. Most fair, the blind has lost your face forever.

Starting point is 02:28:38 Most foul, how could I see you while I, kissed you. So the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you, for foul or lovely, twas a fool that loved you. End of poem number 63. He wonders whether to praise or to blame her from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 64 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. A memory from a sonnet sequence. Some while before the dawn I rose, and stepped softly along the dim way to your room, and found you sleeping in the quiet gloom, and holiness about you as you slept.

Starting point is 02:29:48 I knelt there, till your waking fingers crept about my head and held it. I had rest unhoped this side of heaven beneath your breast. I knelt a long time, still, nor even wept. It was great wrong you did me, and for gain of that poor moment's kindliness and ease, and sleepy, mother comfort. Child, you know how easily love leaps out to dreams like these who has seen them true, and love that's wakened so takes all too long to lay asleep again. End of poem number 64, a memory from a sonnet sequence, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 65 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by

Starting point is 02:31:07 Graham Redman. One day. Today I have been happy. All the day I held the memory of you, and wove its laughter with the dancing light of the spray, and sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love, and sent you following the white waves of sea, and crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth, stray buds from that old dust of misery, being glad with a new foolish, quiet mirth. So lightly I played with those dark memories, just as a child, beneath the summer skies, plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone, for which, he knows not, towns were fire of old,

Starting point is 02:32:03 and love has been betrayed, and murder done, and great kings turned to a little bitter mould. End of poem number 65, one day, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain, Main. Poem number 66 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond.

Starting point is 02:32:45 Waikiki Warm perfumes, like a breath from vine and tree, drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes, somewhere, an ukulele thrills and cries, and stabs with pain the night's brown savagery. and dark sense whisper, and dim waves creep to me, Glean like a woman's hair, stretch out and rise, And new stars burn into the ancient skies over the murmurous soft Hawaiian sea. And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again, and still remember a tale I have heard or known,

Starting point is 02:33:37 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. End of poem number 66, Waikiki. from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 67 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 02:34:29 Hauntings In the grey tumult of these after years oft silence falls, the incessant wrangler's part, and less than echoes of remembered tears, hush all the loud confusion of the heart. And a shade through the tossed ranks of mirth and crying, hungers and pains and each dull, passionate mood, quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,

Starting point is 02:35:03 comes back the ecstasy of your quietude. So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams is haunted by strange doubts evasive dreams hints of a pre-lethean life of men, stars, rocks, and flesh things unintelligible

Starting point is 02:35:25 and light on waving grass he knows not when and feet that ran but where he cannot tell End of poem number 67 hauntings from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 68 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke

Starting point is 02:36:03 read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Sonnet, suggested by some of the proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. Not with vain tears when we are beyond, the sun we'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread those dusty high roads of the aimless dead, plaintive for earth, but rather turn and run down some close-covered byway of the air, some low sweet alley between wind and wind, stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there, spend in pure converse our eternal day.

Starting point is 02:36:54 Think each in each immediately wise. Learn all we lacked before. Hear know and say what this tumultuous body now denies, and feel who have laid our groping hands away, and see no longer blinded by our eyes. End of poem number 68. Sonnet, suggested by some of the proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 02:37:33 This recording is in the public domain. Poem No. 69 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Clouds Down the Blue Night, the Unending Column's Press in noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow, now tread the far south, or lift rounds of snow up to the white moon's hidden loveliness. Some pause in their grave wandering, comradeless,

Starting point is 02:38:20 and turn with profound gesture vague and slow as who would pray good for the world, but know their benediction empty as they bless. They say that the dead die not, but remain near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth. I think they ride the calm mid-heaven as these, in wise, majestic, melancholy train, and watch the moon and the still raging seas, and men coming and going on the earth. End of poem number 69, clouds, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 02:39:21 Poem number 70 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Mutability They say there's a high, windless world and strange, out of the wash, of days and temporal tide, where faith and good, wisdom and truth abide, eternal corpora, subject to no change. There the sure sons of these pale shadows move, there stand the immortal enzymes of our war. Our melting flesh fixed beauty there, a star, and perishing heart's imperishable love. Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile.

Starting point is 02:40:21 Each kiss lasts but the kissing, and grief goes over. Love has no habitation but the heart. Poor straws, on the dark flood we catch a while, cling and are born into the night apart. The laugh dies with the lips. Love with the lover. End of poem number 70, mutability, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 02:40:55 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 71 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. the busy heart now that we've done our best and worst and parted i would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend oh heart i do not dare go empty-hearted i'll think of love in books love without end women with child content and old men sleeping and wet strong plowlands, scarred for certain grain, and babes that weep, and so forget their weeping, and the young heavens forgetful after rain, and evening hush, broken by homing wings, and songs nobility and wisdom holy, that live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things lovely,

Starting point is 02:42:17 and durable and taste them slowly one after one, like tasting a sweet food. I have need to busy my heart with quietude. End of poem number 71, the busy heart, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 72 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Love Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,

Starting point is 02:43:09 where that comes in that shall not go again. Love sells the proud heart citadel to fate. They have known shame who love unloved, Even then when two mouths thirsty each for each find slaking, And agonies forgot, and hushed the crying of credulous hearts in heaven, Such are but taking their own poor dreams within their arms, And lying each in his lonely night, each with a ghost. Some share that night, but they know love grows cold,

Starting point is 02:43:51 grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most. Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder, but darkens and dies out from kiss to kiss. All this is love, and all love is but this. End of poem number 72, love, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. recording is in the public domain. Poem number 73 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Unfortunate, heart, you are restless as a paper strap that's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind, saying she is most wise, patient and kind. Between the small hands folded in her lap, surely a shamed head may bow down at length,

Starting point is 02:45:07 and find forgiveness where the shadows stir about her lips, and wisdom in her strength, peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her. She will not care. She'll smile to see me come, so that I think all heaven in flower to fold me. She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me, and open wide upon that holy air the gates of peace, and take my tiredness home, kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care. End of poem number 73, Unfortunate.

Starting point is 02:45:56 From the collected poems, of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 74 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. The Chilterns Your hands, my dear, adorable, your lips of tenderness, oh, I've loved you faithfully and well three years, or a bit less. It wasn't a success.

Starting point is 02:46:38 Thank God that's done, and I'll take the road quit of my youth and you, the Roman road to wendover by Tring and Lily Who, as a free man may do. For youth goes over, the joys that fly, the tears that follow fast, and the dirtiest things we do must lie forgotten at the last, Even love goes past. What's left behind, I shall not find the splendour and the pain, The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again.

Starting point is 02:47:22 But the years that take the best away, Give something in the end, And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, that have themselves to friend. I shall desire, and I shall find the best of my desires, the autumn road, the mellow wind that soothes the darkening shires, and laughter and in fires.

Starting point is 02:47:52 White mist about the black hedge-rose, the slumbering midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, certainly these remain and I shall find some girl perhaps and a better one than you with eyes as wise but kindlier and lips as soft but true and I dare say she will do end of poem number 74 the Chilterns from the collected poems of Rupert brook this recording is in the public domain. Poem number seventy-five of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond.

Starting point is 02:48:54 Home I came back late and tired last night into my little room, to the long chair and the firelight and comfortable gloom. But as I entered softly in, I saw a woman there, the line of neck and cheek and chin, the darkness of her hair, the form of one I did not know, sitting in my chair. I stood a moment fierce and still, watching her neck and hair. I made a step to her, and saw that there was no one there. It was some trick of the firelight that made me see her there. It was a chance of shade and light and the cushion.

Starting point is 02:49:43 in the chair. Oh, all you happy over the earth, that night how could I sleep? I lay and watched the lonely gloom, and watched the moonlight creep from wall to basin round the room. All night I could not sleep. End of poem number 75, home, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 76 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Night Journey Hands and lit faces eddy to align. The dazed last minutes click, the clamour dies. Beyond the great swung arc of the roof, divine, night, smoky scarved, with thousand colored eyes glares the imperious mystery of the way thirsty for dark you feel the long-limbed train throb stretch thrill motion slide pull out and sway

Starting point is 02:51:10 strain for the far pause draw to strength again as a man caught by some great hour will rise slow limbs to meet the light or find his love, and, breathing long with staring, sightless eyes, hands out, head back, agape and silent, moved sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing, and gathering power and godhead as he goes, unstumbling, unreluctant, strong unknowing, born by a will not his, that lifts,

Starting point is 02:51:52 grows, sweep into darkness, triumphing to his goal, out of the fire, out of the little room. There is an end appointed, O my soul, crimson and green the signals burn. The gloom is hung with steam's fantastic, livid streamers. Lost into God as lights in light we fly, grown one with will end drunken, huddled dreamers. The white lights roar, the sounds of the world die, and lips and laughter are forgotten things. Speed sharpens, grows. Into the night and on the strength and splendor of our purpose swings.

Starting point is 02:52:47 The lamps fade, and the stars. We are alone. End of Poem No. 76, The Night Journey, from the Collected Poins of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 77 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook read forlibrivox.org by Graham Redman. Song All suddenly the wind comes soft and spring is here again. and the hawthorn quickens with buds of green, and my heart with buds of pain.

Starting point is 02:53:40 My heart all winter lay so numb, the earth so dead and fror, that I never thought the spring would come, or my heart wake any more. But winters broken, and earth has woken, and the small birds cry again, and the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds, and my heart puts forth its pain. End of poem number 77, song, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 78 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Beauty and Beauty When beauty and beauty meet all naked, fair to fair,

Starting point is 02:54:48 The earth is crying sweet, And scattering bright the air, Eddying, dizzying, closing round with soft and drunken laughter, veiling all that may befall after, after. Where beauty and beauty and beauty, beauty met, Earth's still a tremble there, and the winds are scented yet, and memory soft the air, bosoming folding glints of light, and shreds of shadowy laughter. Not the tears that fill the years after. After. End of poem number 78, Beauty and Beauty, from the collected poems.

Starting point is 02:55:42 of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 79 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. The Way that Lovers Use. The way that lovers use is this. They bow, catch hands with never a word, and their lips meet and they do kiss. so i have heard they queerly find some healing so and strange attainment in the touch there is a secret lovers know i have read as much and there's no longer joy nor smart changing or ending night or day but mouth to mouth and heart on heart

Starting point is 02:56:49 So lovers say. End of poem number 79, the way that lovers use from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 80 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Mary and Gabriel Young Mary loitering once her garden way. felt a warm splendour grow in the April day as wine that blushes water through, and soon, out of the gold air of the afternoon, one knelt before her.

Starting point is 02:57:46 Hair he had, or fire, bound back above his ears with golden wire, bearing the eager marble of his face. Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace, rounding the, the limbs beneath that robe of white, and lighting the proud eyes with changeless light, incurious. Calm as his wings and fair, that presence filled the garden. She stood there, saying, What would you, sir? He told his word, Blessed art thou of women. Half she heard, hands folded and face bowed, Half long had known the message of that clear and holy tone

Starting point is 02:58:37 That fluttered hot, sweet sobs about her heart. Such serene tidings moved such human smart. Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow. Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know it was. not hers. She felt a trembling stir within her body, a will too strong for her that held and filled and mastered all. With eyes closed and a thousand soft, short, broken sighs, she gave submission, fearful, meek, and glad. She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had such multitude

Starting point is 02:59:26 to and fro, and throbs not understood. She did not know if they were hurt or joy for her, but only that she was grown strange to herself, half lonely, all wonderful, filled full of pains to come, and thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb, human and quaint, her own yet very far, divine, dear, terrible, familiar. Her heart was faint for telling, to relate her limbs, sweet treachery, her strange high estate over and over, whispering, half-revealing, weeping, and so find kindness to her healing. Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her, she raised her eyes to that fair messenger. He knelt unmoved, immortal,

Starting point is 03:00:33 with his eyes gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies. Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind. His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind. How should she, pitiful with mortality, try the wide piece of that felicity with ripples of her perplexed shaken heart and hints of human ecstasy,

Starting point is 03:01:02 human smart, and whispers of the lonely weight she bore, and how her womb within was hers no more, and at length hers. Being tired, she bowed her head, and said, So be it. The great wings were spread, showering glory on the fields and fire.

Starting point is 03:01:29 The whole air singing bore him up and higher, unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone a gold speck in the gold skies, then was gone. The air was colder and grey. She stood alone. End of Poem No. 80, Mary and Gabriel, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 81 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The Funeral of Youth, Threnadie.

Starting point is 03:02:28 The day that youth had died, there came to his graves. side, indecent morning, from the country's ends, those scattered friends who had lived the boon companions of his prime, and laughed with him, and sung with him, and wasted in feast and wine and many-crowned carouse, the days and nights and dawnings of the time when youth kept open house, nor left untasted, aught of his high emprice and veneroused, and venerable, and veneroused, dear, no quest of his unshared. All these, with loitering feet and sad head bared, followed their old friend's beer. Folly went first, with muffled bells and coxcomb still reversed, and after trod the bearers hat in hand, laughter most hoarse, and captain pride, with tanned and martial face all

Starting point is 03:03:35 grim, and fussy joy, who had to catch a train, and lust, poor sniveling boy. These bore the deer departed. Behind them, broken-hearted came grief, so noisy a widow that all said, Had he but wed her elder sister sorrow in her stead, and by her trying to soothe her all the time the fatherless children colour tune and rhyme the sweet lad rhyme ran all uncomprehending then at the way's sad ending round the raw grave they stayed old wisdom read in mumbling tone the service for the dead there stood romance the furrowing tears had marked her rougeed cheek. Poor old conceit, his wonder unassuaged. Dead innocence's daughter ignorance,

Starting point is 03:04:39 and shabby ill-dressed generosity, and argument too full of woe to speak, passion grown portly, something middle-aged, and friendship, not a minute older she. Impatience, ever taking out his watch? Faith, who was deaf and had to lean to catch old wisdom's endless drone. Beauty was there, pale in her black, dry-eyed, she stood alone. Poor mazed imagination, fancy wild, ardour the sunlight on his greying hair.

Starting point is 03:05:23 contentment, who had known youth as a child, and never seen him since. And spring came too, dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers. She did not stay for long. And truth, and grace, and all the merry crew, the laughing winds and rivers and lithe hours, and hope the dewy-eyed and sorrowing song. Yes, with much woe and mourning general, at dead youth's funeral, even these were met once more together,

Starting point is 03:06:04 all who erst the fair and living youth did know. All except only love. Love had died long ago. End of poem number 81, funeral of youth Thrennerdy from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 82 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. The Old Vicarage, Granchester Cafe des Veston's Berlin, May 1912. Just now the lilac is in bloom all

Starting point is 03:07:00 before my little room, and in my flower-beds, I think, smile the carnation and the pink, and down the borders well I know, the poppy and the pansy blow. Oh, there the chestnuts, summer through beside the river make for you a tunnel of green gloom, and sleep deeply above, and green and deep the stream mysterious glides beneath, Green as a dream, and deep as death. Oh, damn, I know it, and I know how the Mayfield's all golden show, And when the day is young and sweet, Gild gloriously the bare feet that run to bathe. Do labor got.

Starting point is 03:07:52 Here am I sweating, sick, and hot, and there the shadowed waters fresh lean up to embrace the naked flesh. Temperamentful German Jews drink beer around, and there the dews are soft beneath a morn of gold. Here tulips bloom as they are told. Unkempt about those hedges blows an English unofficial rose, And there the unregulated sun slopes down to rest when day is done, And wakes a vague, unpunctual star, a slippered hesper,

Starting point is 03:08:37 And there are meads towards Hazlingfield and Coton, Where das betreatens not foreboughton. I think in no mean, Would I were in Grandchester, in Grandchester, Some, it may be, can get in touch with nature there, or earth or such, and clever modern men have seen a fawn a peeping through the green, and felt the classics were not dead, to glimpse a Niyad's reedy head or hear the goat-foot piping low. But these are things I do not know. I only know that you may lie day long and watch the Cambridge sky, and flower-lulled in sleepy grass, hear the cool lapse of hours pass until the centuries blend and blur in Granchester, in Granchester. Still, in the dawn-lit waters cool, his ghostly lordship swims his pool,

Starting point is 03:09:44 and tries the strokes, essays the tricks long learnt on Helispont or sticks. Dan Chaucer hears his river still chatter beneath a phantom mill. Tennyson notes, with studious eye, how Cambridge waters hurry by. And in that garden, black and white, creep whispers through the grass all night, and spectral dance before the dawn, a hundred vickers down the lawn. Curates, long dust, will come and go on lissom, clerical, printless toe. And oft between the boughs is seen the sly shade of auroral dine. Till at a shiver in the skies, vanishing with satanic cries,

Starting point is 03:10:37 the prim ecclesiastic rout leaves but a startled sleeper out. "'Gray heavens, the first birds drowsy calls, "'the falling house that never falls. "'God, I will pack and take a train "'and get me to England once again, "'for England's the one land I know "'where men with splendid hearts may go, "'and Cambridgeshire of all England

Starting point is 03:11:07 "'the shireful men who understand, "'and of that, of that, district I prefer the lovely hamlet, Granchester. For Cambridge people rarely smile, being urban, squat and packed with guile, and Royston men in the far south are black and fierce and strange of mouth. At over they fling oaths at one, and worse than oaths at Trumpington, and Ditton girls are mean and dirty, and there's none in Haster, under thirty, and folks in Shelford and those parts have twisted lips and twisted hearts. And Barton men make cockney rhymes, and cotons full of nameless crimes, and things are done you'd not

Starting point is 03:11:59 believe at Maddingly on Christmas Eve. Strong men have run for miles and miles when one from Cherry Hinton smiles. strong men have blanched and shot their wives rather than send them to St. Ives. Strong men have cried like babes by dam to hear what happened at Babraham. But Granchester? Ah, Granchester. There's peace and holy quiet there. Great clouds along Pacific skies, and men and women with straight eyes. Lithe children lovelier than a dream,

Starting point is 03:12:42 A bosky wood, a slumberous stream, And little kindly winds that creep round twilight corners, half asleep. In Granchester their skins are white. They bathe by day, they bathe by night. The women there do all they ought. The men observe the rules of thought. They love the good, they worship truth, They laugh uproariously in youth, and when they get to feeling old, they up and shoot themselves, I'm told.

Starting point is 03:13:19 Our God, to see the branches stir across the moon at Granchester, to smell the thrilling, sweet and rotten, unforgettable, unforgotten river smell, and hear the breeze sobbing in the little trees. Say, do the elm clumps greatly stand still guardians of that holy land? The chestnuts shade in reverend dream, the yet unacademic stream. Is dawn a secret shy and cold, anodyominy, silver gold? And sunset still a golden sea from hazling field to maddingly? And after, ere the night. is born, do hairs come out about the corn. Oh, is the water sweet and cool, gentle and brown above the pool, and laughs the immortal river still, under the mill, under the mill. Say, is there

Starting point is 03:14:25 beauty yet to find, and certainty, and quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget the lies, and truths and pain. Oh, yet stands the church clock at ten to three, and is there honey still for tea? End of poem number 82, The Old Vicarage, Grandchester, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 03:15:13 Poem number 83 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook. Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Fathia Stars that seem so close and bright watched by lovers through the night swim in emptiness, men say, many a mile and year away.

Starting point is 03:15:40 And yonder star that burns so white may have died to dust and night ten, may be or fifted, fifteen year before it shines upon my dear. O often among men below, heart cries out to heart, I know, And one is dust a many years, child, before the other hears. Heart from heart is all as far, Fafaya, as Star from Star. End of poem number 83.

Starting point is 03:16:20 year from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 84 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. Fragment I strayed about the deck an hour to a night under a cloudy, moonless sky, and peeped in at the windows, watched my friends at table, or playing cards, or standing in the doorway, or coming out into the darkness. Still no one could see me. I would have thought of them, heedless within a week of battle, in pity, pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness, and linked beauty of bodies, and pity that this gay machine of splendour had soon be broken, thought little of,

Starting point is 03:17:32 pashed, scattered. Only always I could but see them against the lamplight, pass like colored shadows, thinner than filmy glass, slight bubbles, fainter than the waves, faint light, that broke to phosphorus out in the night, perishing things and strange ghosts, soon to die to other ghosts, this one, or that, or I. End of poem number 84, fragment, from the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.

Starting point is 03:18:16 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 85 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read forlibrivox.org by Graham Redmond. The dance, a song. As the wind, and as the wind, in a corner of the way, goes skipping, stands twirling, invisibly, comes whirling, bows before and skips behind, in a grave and endless play, So my heart, and so my heart, following where your feet have gone, stirs dust of old dreams there. He turns a toe, he gleams there, treading you a dance apart.

Starting point is 03:19:16 But you see not. You pass on. End of poem number 85, the dance, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 86 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redmond. Song The way of love was thus.

Starting point is 03:19:57 He was born one winter morn with hands delicious, and it was well with us. Love came our quiet way, lit pride in us, and died in us, all in a winter's day. There is no more to say. End of Poem No. 86, Song, from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 87 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 03:20:45 Sometimes, even now, Sometimes even now I may steal a prisoner's holiday, Slip when all is worst the bans, Hurry back and duck beneath time's old tyrannous groping hands, Speed away with laughing breath, Back to all I'll never know, Back to you a year ago. Truant there from time and pain, what I had I find again,

Starting point is 03:21:18 sunlight in the boughs above, sunlight in your hair and dress, the hands too proud for all but love, the lips of utter kindness, the heart of bravery swift and clean where the best was safe, I knew, and laughter in the gold and green, and song and friends, and ever you with smiling and familiar eyes, You but friendly, you, but true. And innocence accounted wise, and faith the fool, the pitiable, Love so rare, one would swear all of earth forever well, Careless lips and flying hair, And little things I may not tell.

Starting point is 03:22:10 It does but double the heartache, When I wake, when I wake, End of poem number 87, sometimes even now, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 88 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet In Time of Revolt The Thing Must End. am no boy i am no boy being twenty-one uncle you make a great mistake a very great mistake in shiding me for letting slip a damn what's more you called me mother's one you lamb bad me refrain from swearing for her sake till i'm grown up by god i think you take too much upon you uncle

Starting point is 03:23:28 William. You say I am your brother's only son. I know it. And what of it? I reply. My heart's resolved. Something must be done. So shall I curb, so baffle, so suppress this too avuncular officiousness. Intolerable consanguinity. End of poem number 88. it, in time of revolt, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 89 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redmond. A letter to a live poet. Sir, since the last Elizabethan died, or rather that more paradisal muse, blind

Starting point is 03:24:38 with much light, passed to the light more glorious or deeper blindness, no man's hand as thine has on the world's most noblest chord of song struck certain magic strains. Ears satiate with the clamorous, timorous whisperings of today, thrilled to perceive once more the spacious voice and serene utterance of old. We heard, with rapturous breath half held, as a dreamer dreams who dares not know it dreaming lest he wake, the odorous amorous style of poetry, the melancholy knocking of those lines, the long, low-suffing of pentameters, or the sharp of rhyme as a bird's cry, and the innumerable truant polysyllibles multitudinously twittering like a bee. Fulfilled our hearts were with that

Starting point is 03:25:31 music then, and all the evenings sighed it to the dawn, and all the lovers heard it from all the trees. All of the accents upon all the norms, and are the stress on the penultimate, we never knew blank verse could have such feet. Where is it now? Oh, more than ever now I sometimes think no poetry is read, save where some sepultu'd Cizura bled, royally incarnadine, all the line. Is the imperial I am laid to rest, and the young troche, having done enough? Our turn again, sing so to us who are sick of seeming simple rhymes, bizarre emotions, decked in the simple verses of the day, infinite meaning in a little gloom, irregular thoughts in stanzas regular, modern despair in antique meters, myths incomprehensible at evening and symbols that mean nothing in the dawn.

Starting point is 03:26:36 The slow lines swell, the new style sighs, the Celt moans round with many voices. God, to see Gaunt Anapist stand up out of the verse, combative accents, stress where no stress should be, Spondy on Spondy, I am on Kordiam, the thrill of all the tribracs in the world, and all the vowels rising to the E. To hear the blessed mutter of those verbs, conjunctions passionate towards each other's arms, and epithets like amaranthine lovers, stretching luxuriously to the stars, all prouder pronouns than the dawn, and all the thunder of the trumpets of the noun. End of poem number 89, a letter to a live poet from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 03:27:47 Poem number 90 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Fragment on Painters There is an evil which that was. race attaints, who represent God's world with oily paints, who mock the universe so rare and sweet with spots of colour on a canvas sheet, defile the lovely and insult the good by crawling upon little bits of wood. There'd snare the moon and catch the immortal sun with madder brown and pale vermilion. Entrap an English evening's magic heart. End of Poem No. 90, Fragment on Painters from the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook.

Starting point is 03:28:43 This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 91 of the Collected Poems of Rupert Brook, read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. The True Beatitude, Buz Riemé. They say, when the great prompter's hand shall ring down the last curtain upon earth and sea, all the good mimes will have eternity to praise their author, worship love, and sing, or to the walls of heaven wandering, look down on those damned for a fretful D. Mock them, all theologians agree on this reward for virtue, laugh and fling new sulfur on the sin incarnadined. Our love, still temporal and still atmospheric, teleologically unperturbed, we share a peace by no divine, divined, an earthly garden hidden

Starting point is 03:29:59 from any cleric, untrodden of God, by no eternal curbed. End of poem number 91. true beatitude from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 92 of the collected poems of Rupert Brooke read for Librevox.org by Graham Redman. Sonnet reversed. Hand trembling towards hand, the amazing lights of heart and eye. They stood on. supreme heights.

Starting point is 03:30:55 Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon. Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures, settled at Ballam by the end of June. Their money was in can-packs-bead debentures, and in Antifagastas. Still he went, city-wood daily, still she did abide at home, and both were really quite content with work and social pleasures. Then they died. They left three children, besides George, who drank, the eldest Jane, who married Mr. Bell, William, the head clerk in the county bank, and Henry, a stockbroker, doing well. End of poem number 92, sonnet reversed, from the collected poems of Rupert Brook. This recording is in the public domain. Poem number 93 of the collected poems of

Starting point is 03:32:07 Rupert Brook read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. It's not going to happen again. I have known the most dear that is granted us here, more supreme than the gods know above, like a star I was hurled through the sweet of the world, and the height and the light of it, love. I have risen to the uttermost heaven of joy, I have sunk to the sheer hell of pain, but it's not going to happen again, my boy, it's not going to happen again. It's the very first word that poor Juliet heard from Her Romeo over the sticks, and the Roman will tell Cleopatra in hell. It's the very first word, when she starts the immortal old tricks. What Paris was telling for goodbye to Helen when he bundled her into the train,

Starting point is 03:33:07 Oh, it's not going to happen again, old girl. It's not going to happen again. End of poem number 93. It's not going to happen again. From the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. This recording is in the public domain. poem number 94 of the collected poems of Rupert Brook Read for Librivox.org by Graham Redman.

Starting point is 03:33:47 The Little Dogs Day All in the town was still asleep when the sun came up with a shout and a leap. In the lonely streets unseen by man a little dog danced and the day began. All his life he had been good as far as he could. and the poor little beast had done all that he should. But this morning he swore by Odin and Thor and the canine Valhalla, here stand it no more. So his prayer he got granted,

Starting point is 03:34:23 to do just what he wanted, prevented by none for the space of one day. Jam Incipi Ebo, Sederi Facibo, In dog Latin he quoth, U.J. Sophos, hooray. He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs, a thing that had never been heard of before. For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button, he cried, and at all he could swallow, and more. He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps, and mangled the errand-boys, when he could get them.

Starting point is 03:35:01 He shamed furious rabies, and bit all the babies, and followed the cats up the trees and then etham. They thought t'was the devil was holding a revel, and sent for the parson to drive him away, for the town never knew such a hullabaloo as that little dog raised, till the end of that day. When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, and the lights were lit in the little town, outside in the gloom of the twilight grey the little dog died when he had had his day end of poem number ninety four the little dog's day from the collected poems of rupert brook end of the collected poems of rupert brook

Classic Audiobook Collection - Collected Poems by Rupert Brooke ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

There aren't comments yet for this episode. Click on any sentence in the transcript to leave a comment.