Classic Audiobook Collection - Star Dust by Jeannette Fraser Henshall ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

Starting point is 00:00:00 star dust by janet fraser hinshall there's a little place in dreamland where i dare not linger long but i often wonder by it while the daylight slips along but when ere i touch its border and admire its soft blue skies there's a little sprite of mischief throws the star dust in my eyes so i dally through the morning and ponder o'er my tea comparing sky-line colors with the matchless tints at sea Then I turned to tasks and finished, then with swiftness of surprise, I glimpsed the little mischief throwing star dust in my eyes. I'm a sad and vexing problem to my partner and my friend, for they jolt me out of the cloudland to the busy world of men. But I find a well of pleasure in Dreamland's sunny skies, and I love the little mischief who throws star dust in my eyes.

Starting point is 00:00:58 End a poem. recording is in the public domain. Life by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Anthony Will. A little bit of sorrow and a little bit of song. Sometimes the way is very brief, sometimes it seems too long.

Starting point is 00:01:18 A little bit of trouble, vague wanderings and fears. A little bit of rapture, mixed up with smiles and tears. Sometimes the way is stony, and the thorns are uppermost, but it's always worth a living, no matter what the cost.

Starting point is 00:01:34 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. fate. Perhaps someday, the spinner who unwittingly tangled my doom with a stricken heart, will remember the fabric, the web, and the loom. She'll gather the threads together, all golden and silver spun, tie all the ends with a rainbow, and bands from the moonbeams young. She'll weave in a little rapture, discard all the tears and pain, give me a crown for crosses, repair my loss with gain. Then, when the master craftsman ponderes the loom awhile, he'll give me a smile of magic to win me the friends worthwhile. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:02:55 Destiny by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Librevox.org by Anthony Will. Tempestuous skies, pale clouds racing by, a wild, a windy day, a band of mist by sunbeams kissed, and you, dear, far away. And, oh, believe the purple Eve, brings visions of your face, my memory but tortures me with things that ne'er take place. End of poem.

Starting point is 00:03:24 This recording is in the public domain. To pop by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Redfall LibriVox.org by Tamara Cooper. When Dad put on his coat and hat and say goodbye to me, He looked so sad He'd almost think

Starting point is 00:03:48 To's for eternity He looked so sorrowful and blue When the depot street car came And from the rear end platform He waved goodbye again Then we went home Unlocked the door And say the atmosphere

Starting point is 00:04:03 Just wreaked off his tobacco smoke But yet the house was drear We couldn't eat Just nibbled things Some cookies and a bun we tried to read, but strange to say, the magazines were bum. Ma couldn't sleep, but just lay down, with all the lights turned on. The rest of us just wondered where our headaches all came from.

Starting point is 00:04:31 When we awoke, our little flat was cold as all outdoors. The fire was out, someone forgot to do the evening chores. Then someone wished to know the time We missed the old TikTok And read with shame my mother said She didn't wind the clock They often say what's home Without a mother's face

Starting point is 00:04:59 But there are lots of daddies too Great factors in their place End of poem This recording is in the public domain My Sweetheart's Name By Jeanette's Fraser Henschel Read for LibuVox.org By Tamara Cupa

Starting point is 00:05:23 So often at the mention of my sweetheart's name Though strangers cannot guess my inmost thought I feel at times this cheek of mine grow pale Or in a sudden panic crimson heart When careless hands from some street page had cat His likeness and the record of his fame The hot tears pushed themselves A-down made chicks

Starting point is 00:05:47 And jeweled every letter of that name Tis well enough when duties claim my mind But how I love Eves switching hours that trace Among the dancing shadows of my walls Each dear familiar feature of his face The lips that never have and never will touch mine Those eyes so deeply tender

Starting point is 00:06:11 But this pen could not do justice to so sweet a name. Her wife could wish to wear no lovely a gem. In sundraft paths of memory I walk. I know it is fully and it gives me needless pain. Yet I'm praising every little sweet reminder that beats me speak in dreams my sweetheart's name. End of poem.

Starting point is 00:06:36 This recording is in the public domain. Grief by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for, for Libravox.org by Nikisha Luckett. Grief. Oh, they say you're safe from harm, but they took you from my arm. They buried you beneath the coal and snow.

Starting point is 00:07:00 My old heart nearly broke, and the tears nigh made me choke, because I loved my baby so. And I's dreaming in the night, and eyes a hugging of your tight, and the kissing of your warm, sweet baby, face. Then I wakes up in the gloom, and by the glimmer from the moon, I seize your empty cradle in its place. Oh, I surely think at God hit himself behind a cloud when he let them take my lammocken away.

Starting point is 00:07:38 He surely done for God, poor old man his lonely lot, and the emptiness in this old heart today. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To a censor by Jeanette Fraser Henshul. Read for Libavox.org by Tamara Cooper. There is something of a tonic in your sensor just like wine and you'll find no yellow fabric in this makeup staff of mine. I may not be a soldier or commander of a fleet,

Starting point is 00:08:20 but I'm one who loves a battle and I'll never no defeat. You may think you've laid in silence, one more nuisance with your pen. But believe me, lovely lady, I will just come back again. There is something still more bitter than the sweetest thing is sweet.

Starting point is 00:08:39 We who court success just drink it, but never no defeat. Sense of bitter will just maybe, for everybody knows. That a thorn is constant comrade, to the sweetest flower that grows. So I'll take your written censor, call it by a name more sweet,

Starting point is 00:08:59 line up once again for action, but never no defeat. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Two Arrose by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Librax.org by Nikesha Luckett. Two arose. Wine red in your heart,

Starting point is 00:09:25 each petal apart, looking drunk with your own sweet perfume. Summer's one queen, on bowed stem of green, beautiful spirit of June. Remembrance brings near past days that were dear, amethyst evenings and summer night moons. Strange thoughts now obsess me as I stoop to caress thee and drink of your unmatched perfume. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. starring the embers when it was cold in the little brown house at the crossroads. The dear little house at the crossroads dressed winsome in flower and vine,

Starting point is 00:10:41 coming from out of the dreams I love, to capture this heart of mine. I can see it yet in the dripping rain, most shouting a welcome the nearer I came, down the gleaming pathway of mist and rain to the little brown house at the crossroads. and God, if I ever do get to heaven, and these houses with cunning brown frames, have one ready for me at the crossroads, and write just above it my name. Oh, it will be sweet when the doors open white,

Starting point is 00:11:15 and folks that I love round the old chimney side, as tiring its embers but only for pride of the little brown house at the crossroads. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Alone by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Riley. Quite often in his vague, elusive plan,

Starting point is 00:11:44 the master measures office space for man, in which no angel ever walks or smiles, encouragement along life's weary miles. Their pristine beauty he keeps safe at home, so in his direst plight, man seems alone. When he recalled from us his blessed son, our eternal testing work had just begun. We've had since then no heavenly vision bright. Seemed God in silence, scorn, turned off the light.

Starting point is 00:12:14 So man through devious ways may search alone, to find the path that leads him safely home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Perhaps a friend is taking a journey far away, it may be for a fortnight, or only for a day. You press their hand in parting, while you smother back a sigh, and the heart of you is calling, Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. The love we worship blindly, with a pure, sweet tender thought, then pleading, though our lips be dumb, but love's voice answers not.

Starting point is 00:13:00 Then stunned through years of silent grief, we wander aimlessly by, and suffer every time we hear, goodbye, goodbye. It may be death has taken a loved one by the hand, and spirit like has led them into the silent land. We struggle with our sense of grief, and like lost children cry, across a new-made grave today, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To be Ula by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw, readfully brooks.org by Enkel. To Beulah I never knew the house could talk

Starting point is 00:13:47 in such a pensive way that piano stools in vacant chairs could find so much to say. The silent little bedroom and books all seem inclined to shout at me their hunger for that little girl of mine. How could I know that

Starting point is 00:14:03 Reuben Bose could voice a grief today and that I'd learn to know the things an empty chair could say? I'm glad to's a shadow that will pass like summer rain, that tomorrow evening truly, I will have you back again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Old year, goodbye to you by Jeanette Fraser Hensall. Read for Libravox.org by Chinmay.

Starting point is 00:14:37 I have always loved old poems, old melodies, old towers, and I adore old homesteads. old laces, and old flowers. I love the magic fairy tale that makes my heart beat true and yearn for old time comrades, but old year I love you too. I am sad to see you going. You've meant so much to me

Starting point is 00:15:10 of sorrows, and I faced them with eyes too dimmed to see. You've given me full measure of gloom and such a few, of smiles and reassurance, but old year, I love you too. You've given me new crosses,

Starting point is 00:15:34 placed them heavy on my heart, and I bore them sometimes flinching, knowing this to be my part. And I can't forget, old comrade, all the times we've drifted through. So here's my hand in parting. Old year. Goodbye to you.

Starting point is 00:15:58 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Instability by Jeanette Fraser Hensall. Read for Libravox.org by Chinle. I called thee friend in former days, but one thing I deplore, for reasons which I may not name, I call thee friend no more. With thee I shared each joy,

Starting point is 00:16:31 Each woe, in that remote, sweet time. Thy being held a vibrant chord, A-tuned in pitch with mine. We mused alike, Each mutual, though it seemed blended into one. But lo, the strings we loved so much Are broken and unstrung. O life, your shallowness

Starting point is 00:16:54 oft gives one's thoughts a bitter trend. We would, there were no theme named love, and no such word as friend. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A prayer by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for Librobox.org by Larry Wilson. Lord, this barren life of storm and stress

Starting point is 00:17:29 is heavy with its weight of loneliness. If this is what I'm pleased to call your best, then let me go. And God, you've deemed me worthless of a place, and let me stagger through dim, endless space. Though I would run, you have denied the race, so let me go. And out of all the pain and bitter loss,

Starting point is 00:17:54 the gall, the wormwood, the dull dross, I bear each day a new thorned crown and cross, O let me go. And if my earnest plea you have denied, My petition you as worthless put aside, O give me your sweet peace inside, if I must stay. And if dear Lord you bid me longer stay, O keep my feet within the narrow way,

Starting point is 00:18:20 And cheer me on the long, dark, lonely day, If I must stay. And God I kindly would that you would, would unroll the cold gray mists all wrapped around my soul. And though I'm blind, you lead me to the goal, if I must stay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Garland for Glory by Janette Fraser Henshaw. Red for Librevox.org by Riley. You bewilder the world with your section of blue. In my dreams you unfurl your bright stars to my view. Crimson bars, Darren. us all to be true, to live and endeavor and fight all for you.

Starting point is 00:19:09 Beloved, starry banner of glory. May your colors and stars know no sorrow or shame, though the blood of our children must flow once again. May your standard be high and untrammeled your fame, till God the great master cries halt in the game. Victorious banner of glory. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:19:38 by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw, read for Libravox.org by TR. Love on Valentine's Day, 2023. The Golden Rod God was mixing up the colors that he wanted in the sky. Of blue, he had a plenty in his storehouse up on high. With a lavish hand, he spread it across the atmosphere, and the drippings from his brushes fell about the woodland here. Then the rain, came down in April, made each paint drop dewy wet, then they bloomed into that fragrant little flower, the violet. Then he searched his rarest gardens, where each gorgeous color grows. That's why we love the crimson paint he put into the rose. When he lifted up the curtain from the canvas in the west,

Starting point is 00:20:30 it was flooded with the color all America loves best. For the gold, he held too sacred for an ordinary job, so he crowded all its glory into the golden rod. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A love letter by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Librevox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Without being conscious I'm speaking, I walk yet nearer notice the place. In crowds, I'm so lonesome, yet seeing each feature of your loving face.

Starting point is 00:21:14 And I'm longing to break each sweet memory with caresses, so loving and true, but I'm hundreds of leagues in the distance and constantly dreaming of you. I blindly perform every duty, but I long to get out and alone when I'm yearning to have you embrace me, to kiss your sweet lips with my own. I'm consumed with the sweet living torture, and the rapture, half-longing, half-pain, and the picture. and the picture of our love and meeting. Never more to be parted again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A toast by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw, read for Librevox.org by Anthony Will.

Starting point is 00:22:06 Why should we fear grim deaths, cold beer, and tremble at the same? It's in the plan, for mortal man, why shouldn't we be game? Here's to the maze of golden days, of mirth and joy and joy, laughter. So let's forget the grime, the sweat, also what's coming after. It's long been said, when one is dead, it's for a long, long time. Hearts, pulseless lie, emotions die. Here's to your loves and mine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. and having no sons, she's my girl and my boy. She's my pest and my pleasure, my crown and my cross. She's down in life's ledger as profit and loss. She's resplendent with youth, from her head to her toes.

Starting point is 00:23:12 She's as good as the best. I'm her mother who knows. She's a trial, God bless her, but what is much worse, she's an enemy both to my pantry and purse. She's a tease and a piece. She's a tease and my mother. a torment, false, blunders and all. God, lead, guide, and save her. Lest worse should befall. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Vagabond by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read forlibrovox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Oh, Spring, why do you torture me with such a restless mind? You've made a vagabond of me. You're far from being kind. I can think of not, but made it. birds and lovers by the pair. You sing, you dance, you call, you tease. You fill me with despair.

Starting point is 00:24:09 A thousand voices call me. I'm in a roving mood. I'm reckless, to a sad degree, and far from feeling good. Spring, see what you've done to me. I'm wild to be away. I drive folks to distraction with the things I do and say. I want to walk and brown, bare woods among the stirring things. and startle early birds and see new wonders in the spring. My mind is absent from me. My soul has taken wing. My brain is dancing crazy with the tunes I want to sing. Sometimes I'm wild with pleasure.

Starting point is 00:24:46 In a moment, I am sad. If God created all these moods, I wish he never had. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. by Anthony Will. Its cost is never measured. Its truth no tutors teach. Forever at our elbows, yet just beyond our reach.

Starting point is 00:25:19 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. From one woman to another, by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read forlibrivox.org by Lauren Fontaine. And when you came, rough-shod, green-eyed, and vulgar into my solitude of dreams, And after the fashion of your kind, you bade me look from out the rosy windows of my innocence. Perhaps you, in your wise way, called me ignorant. Then, for a while, from my own ends, I matched deceit with your deceit,

Starting point is 00:25:59 until I know you thought I lost my pose. But I, who walk the most in silence, speak as one who knows. And when you thought I was about to yield my own pure body to your wanton ways, In one swift moment, then I turned and caught, unmasked, the look that serpents carry in their eyes. And though you would not credit me with being wise, yet with a wisdom new to me that matched your very own, I lured that look from its remoteness to the garish light, and then I saw you. Not as you seem to be, but as you are tonight. End of poem.

Starting point is 00:26:39 This recording is in the public domain. Spring by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. The new furrowed field, thoughts, memories yield, the pool in the veil down below, the half-craze mood to search the near wood where sap is beginning to flow. We are never too old,

Starting point is 00:27:09 nor emotion too cold to thrill with the Robin's first call. Each blossoms a gem. We break from its stem, no more. matter how slender or tall. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. An Aliens Love by Jeanette Frazier Hinshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Larry Wilson. A pilgrim I am on ways rough and uncouth.

Starting point is 00:27:41 A stranger far off from the dreams of my youth. The longings that surge through my being today are for things I remember, but lost yesterday. there is a lure to the past and its charm ever clings my soul is a slave to the love of these things i can hear in my memory in spring and in fall a sweet welcome note of a robin's bright call it echoes across fields of clover and wheat then dies faint away in a melody sweet and the sun oh that sun when the day is new-born dying the landscape all pink in the morn i gloat o'er each memory i prize every tear each little reminder to me seems so dear a picture i have in my memory hung of a boundless wide sky in the twilight so young pale amethyst clouds gins the pink and the blue mist-like waves flitting over this marvellous hue the path through the wild wood i knew it by heart every twist every turn i could find in the dark oh the charm of that landscape in memory clings round the heart of an alien and tugs at its strings so too is the picture and bright through the mist of a dear little cabin something like this with an old gabled roof and small window panes all gladsomely dripping with spring's gentle rains

Starting point is 00:29:06 an old-fashioned garden ablaze as it were with old-fashioned blooms and the perfume they bear oh i am an alien but the charm ever clings round the old-rusting gate that creaks on its hinge. I remember the hearth. Oh, that hearth's amber gleams, shines on the path of my mage-tangled dreams. And the lure of the home. What a world in one name! And, oh, could I live it all over again,

Starting point is 00:29:36 though time the old traitor has silvered my hair, and aged my form beneath burdens of care, through troubles and trials and sorrows, I'll keep in the soul of my being these memories sweet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. then a page of broken dreams, when sorrow came, then friendship, spiced all with rosy gleams. I turn a sweet rose-scented leaf, and like a breath from June,

Starting point is 00:30:38 love laughs at me between the lines, then mocks me with its doom, a letter from a friend, and in my confidence reposed the history of her strange romance, the wedding and the rose. A day of happiness and mirth spent somewhere by the sea, The petals of crushed violets I cherish tenderly, A birth, a death, a precious gift from someone very dear, Then jot it down at intervals the things I hope and fear. Then a war-drenched, censored message from the trenches overseas, With the ghost of bygone laughter bubbling through it merrily.

Starting point is 00:31:21 Then a line of some old. love song too tender to forget, and it tells me how I crooned it till my foolish eyes were wet. Each record waking echoes like a lonely crickets cheer, wafting me back through eons, to dreams and things that were, like hands from some mystic ocean, the past is calling me, through the medium of the pages of my gilt-edged diary. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Going Home by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw.

Starting point is 00:32:05 Read forlibrovox.org by Lauren Fontaine. I keep wondering every summer when the western clouds hang low if the sky that I remember has the same infinite glow. If the little sparrows nested this summer in the comb, and if the hummingbirds are singing in the sharoniards. tree back home. And I wonder if the homestead at the bottom of the hill cuddles, as it used to seem to, in the shadows soft and still. If the gold of summer sunshine and the silver of its rain sprinkles jewels in the morning on each spotless window pane, if the vines and charming tangles

Starting point is 00:32:47 climbed away beyond the door, tonight the memory's sweeter than it's ever been before. The years that once were rosy, have taken on a sombrer tone. There's something always with me, weaving tender dreams of home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. November by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Across the azure brightness, a slender sunlight rift.

Starting point is 00:33:28 In a melancholy mood, I watch the solemn white clouds drift. A crimson blaze is creeping Around the trunks of trees at times Each a willing pillar standing To support the failing vines Across the tender heartstrings A sudden shaft of pain Stirring leaves of old-time memories

Starting point is 00:33:50 As the birds turn south again Rekindling burnt-out embers On life's hearthstone bare and cold Keeping warm the past November's Touched with amber rose and gold End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Life by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw,

Starting point is 00:34:17 readfully brooks our talk by Inkel. Life. It's the span between the cradle and the gap we call the grave. It's an epoch short and fleeting, where we labour, love and save. It's the distance that we measure by the moment's days and years, and we pause amidst laughter

Starting point is 00:34:35 to wander at our tears. It's a bridge we are all building, twixt eternity and man we find both truths and treason side by side on every span it's a school in which we squander energy and time and brain we often meet disaster but we thought to gather gain it's a rugged twisted pathway where the roses seldom grow and our songs are most of sorrow and our mirth turned into woe it's a gift we're not bestowing on a relative or friend and like riches we can't take it with us at the journey It's a season of existence where we test our love and might. It's the battleground of conscience where we skirmish march and fight. It's a space where joy and sorrow finds the gateway to our lives, and death's only a sweet stranger when the final day arrives. End of poem.

Starting point is 00:35:29 This recallings in the public domain. Memory by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Librefox.org by Deanna Lee. It's the gallery where the artist hangs the picture of our life, and he cares not if it's gloomy or a glow with golden light. It's a storehouse where we garner and remember all the years, the things that gave us pleasure and the cause of all our tears. It's the gateway to past sorrows, and it always stands ajar.

Starting point is 00:36:10 It's the key to future pleasure, with the power to make or mar. It's a diary where we've written every cherished item plain, and each vivid, sacred etching stirs old memories and pain. It's a little cozy corner, a tranquil, quiet abode, a dream-filled space well hidden from the highway and the road. It's a voice that's never silent, and a harp that's never still, waking echo. goes in our heart lobes with each vibrant trembling thrill. It's a garden where we've planted, and in after years we see, each bud that bursts a petal is a rose named memory.

Starting point is 00:37:02 End a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Memory by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libbervox.org Memory is the feeling that comes stealing, stealing, stealing, stealing, stealing over your conscience. When you know your stony broke, and you wish some occult dealings

Starting point is 00:37:37 would paralyze your feelings, when you hear your pardoner tell his standard joke. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. with sweet dreams of you. A chair, a good book, and the answering flame, the crackling hearth-log, speaking back your name. The old clock marking off the hours in chimes that stir me from my reverie at times to drop me back as suddenly into my dreams, sweeter than all the world's imaginings. the hearth a wide wide room and me making a vivid bright reality of all the meaning nothing's running through the strange sweet personality of you the songs you sang that ended in a tear and your own sweet self so intimately near with all the golden shimmering things you wore that i in my humility had long forsworned my unused nostrils sent to-night the fair sweet jasmine blossoms nestled in your hair tis midnight and my souls a thirst to hear your voice again quote verse on verse of classics that we studied you and i in the lost sunshiny days gone by

Starting point is 00:39:43 oh little bursting bleeding heart of fire even your very faults i did admire i loved adored harassed and worshipped you you were so downright good and absolutely true you like a sparkling bright sun beam but my heart always aching with a dream the hearth a wide wide room and my memory dear little friend come back again and see how soon i could forget most every loss and all the utter emptiness from crown to cross and all the burning tears i ever knew just hearing the sweet tinkling laugh of you seeing your dimples chase from brow to chin hearing your songs that had the tear-drops in and all your shimmering garments golden sheen would cure my heart of all its broken dreams. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Elysium by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Librivox.org by Brea Holmes. My Elysium. Little Brown House and Solitude. Friends and an Amber hearth. Tears if I feel like crying, laughter, romance, and mirth. A wild, unconventional garden, but fraught with a sweet repose,

Starting point is 00:41:29 where creepers twine, unchastened, and the lily bends to the rose. Little brown house and silence, unquestioned but understood. Periods of noise and bustle, thrilling its heart of wood. The goodwill of men and children, smiling and unafraid, to enter my charming elysium and play in its speckled shade. Little brown house and solitude, true friends, as I said before, to sympathize, love and believe me, though a heathen, I am to the core. End of poem. This recording is public domain. by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw.

Starting point is 00:42:26 Read for Librabox.org by Larry Wilson. You've come. You've come when least I thought you may to claim at last this suffering mortal clay. At last the horrid vision has come true. How long I feared and how long hated you. And how I fought you back long years agone when fiery fever scorched and parched my tongue.

Starting point is 00:42:54 Then how I try to laugh at my own fears, but lo, I tremble now. You're here. You're here. You are the monster from which none can hide. Your powerful presence cannot be denied. You've hounded me these many, many years, and mocked at all my sorrows and my tears. At last you've wrapped me in your clammy robes and laid your icy hand on my heart lobes. You tramp where no one else has ever trod.

Starting point is 00:43:28 At last, I am your victim, and, oh, God, teach me how to die. Forgive all sin. This is your vengeance. Death. You win. You win. End a poem.

Starting point is 00:43:45 This recording is in the public domain. Hello, April. By Jeanette Frazier Henshow. Rudford, Liberva. Hello, April, is it you? Faith, we know your smiles and sighs, with the teardrops trickling through, ever-changing clouds and skies, teasing us with sun, then rain, but we love you just the same. The soft rustling of your skirt has a magic touch I will.

Starting point is 00:44:28 touch I wean, and the essence of your breath turns the hillside grass all green. Springs first lilting, quivering note, comes from out your teary throat. Irish April, with your smile, Southlands wind and songbirds come, braving winters, lingering, lingering chill, but believing in your son. Hello, April, how do you? My, we're glad to know it's you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:45:24 The One I Love by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for LibreFox.org by Deanna Lee. I loved a man, a little man, but he was not for me. He was only two years old, when I was 23. His cheeks like velvet to my touch. They held youth's flag unfurled. I so admired the lovely way, his silken locks were curled. I loved a man, I love him still.

Starting point is 00:45:56 He's stalwart, 23. His lips are firm, but yet they press each other, tenderly. His cheek is tanned, a leafy brown, and in his gray-blue eyes, a look so keen, so brave and true, like shafts from summer skies. I knew he was not mine to keep. He's dressed in brown khaki, and I'm wishing back the years when I was 23. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. News from the Street by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw.

Starting point is 00:46:43 Read for liverybox.org by Alan Mapstone. You'll be dying to hear of your rival, my dear. Magallon, that little coquette. She's flirted outrageous with all of the boys and never got one of them yet. Kathleen O'Leary's still single, sweet girl. An angel as every... know, with the eyes of her looking like rapture from heaven, and her face like a sweet-smelling rose.

Starting point is 00:47:15 You'll be wild that I'm sure as I would be myself, to hear all you can hear of Barney. I'm sorry to tell you he's fighting in France, like the rest of the boys from Killarney. Now don't let me think that your fast-falling tears will spoil this fine letter I send. i needn't have told you such news darling girl but my nature could never pretend mrs mahoney has gotten some twins michael o'keiths hit the trail i mean that he's under the shamrocks my dear and his widow is terribly frail but i'll give you the truth from a real irish heart take their blunders and blarney and all i'd sooner love all of them only a bit, then a few of them never at all. This island is green

Starting point is 00:48:12 as the sea, that it is, and just like a dream gift from God, is the dear little shamrock that angel kiss bloom, oh, how I love the old sod. We're not a bad sort you have left here behind,

Starting point is 00:48:28 you see I'm the blarney itself, but I'm true to the home of me fathers and yours, and I'm sent Ending me love to yourself. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Looms That Wove the Khaki

Starting point is 00:48:51 By Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for liverybox.org by Alan Mapstone. It is hung beneath the emblem with the white and crimson bars and the blue-flect eyes look courage from the shadow of the stars. It's a picture of a soul. soldier, just a noble Yankee son, and the looms that wove the khaki, and the crimson bars, are

Starting point is 00:49:19 won. All the things he cannot tell us, all the dangers that menace, are all written like a story on his wistful homesick face. A soldier to the last he'll be, till the dreadful war is done, for the looms that wove the khaki and the crimson bars are won. O soldier, it's your picture, hung beneath the crimson bars. You are fighting for our safety while we walk beneath the stars. We will cherish love and lord it to our children's children's sons, for the looms that wove the car key, and the stars and stripes are won. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:50:16 Net Fraser Henshaw, read forlibrovox.org by Lindsay Montgomery. I'm interested in all the news, although, I do not even see the passing show. I only sit at home in my porch swing and have the neighbors tell me everything. I do not need to see the baseball game, then come home tired, disgusted, limp and lame. I do not need to cross the sun-hot street and rave at every step my aching feet. I sit at home and read the news, that's all, but know the ins and outs of Cobbs baseball. I know, although I was not there to see, how some yelled punk and others said T-T, the bum play and the bleachers, he's a frost. Grestfallen faces when Detroit lost.

Starting point is 00:51:06 I followed once the heels of every crowd, and heard the praises linger long and loud. But now I sit at home and tranquilly I choose. to save the leather in my new black shoes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The roads end by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for Librax.org by Curtis Richardson. In nights sweet gloom I fall asleep,

Starting point is 00:51:42 brain weary and heart sore, and seek in dreams the rest I crave from turmoil in life's war, unconscious of all care and strife at the day's sweet tender clothes, Then memory mingles in my dreams, the dewdrop and the rose. Abrupt, I'll find the sweet road's end, With strife and care awe past, And tired and weary of the road, I seek the gloom at last.

Starting point is 00:52:14 That little space so fraught with peace, at the day's sweet, tender clothes. Then mingled on my pulseless breast, deaths, myrtle, and life's rose. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Moving Van by Jeanette Fraser Henshell, read for Libravox.org by TR Love on Valentine's Day, 2023.

Starting point is 00:52:49 There's a mirrorless mirror. A pictureless frame, and the dining room table does not look just the same. The sugar and butter, we frantically hope, is not fatally mixed with Dutch cleanser and soap. The treasures we value and fearful to lose are found in a muddle with blacking and shoes. Our good Sunday bonnet where the skillet should be, the drapery and muslins smell of salada tea. Our fine underclothing and good suit of clothes are faintly perfumed with mustard and clothes. Describe all the horrors? Oh, I never can, but falls in the wake of the old moving van. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 00:53:45 Her Dream by Jeanette Fraser Henshawread for Libravox.org by Bookhorn 360 or maybe Cordelia. Her dream. Mary Martha, Liza Brooks, had a hunch she'd write a book, while the youthful years were slipping over her head. But she followed Custom's rule, and when she was out of school, being very poor, she could do not but wed. Then she settled down for life. She was mother seamstress wife, but all the while she kept that dream back in her brain. Through the years of care and work, she was game. She didn't shirk, but the dream kept living lurid just the same. Then when she was turning gray, all her children went away, for some of them had babies in a home. She had time to rest and think, then that dream, intact, distinct, dumb and ear distracted, claimed her for its own.

Starting point is 00:54:35 So Mary Martha Eliza Brooks wrote a startling taking book. It became the craze of half the reading world, and all the folks who turned her down gossiped all around the town, saying they knew Eliza when she was a girl. When you're feeling old and blue, keep your dreams all sweet and true. Never let the young cow's task put out the flame. And someday though others sneer, you'll get the vision straight and clear and realize that dream back in your brain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. His dissection by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for livervox.org by Bill Mosley.

Starting point is 00:55:18 When God made me, it seemed, oh gee, he thought t'was not enough, but sprinkled lots of perfume thoughts among my brainy stuff. I wish, instead, he had merely, said, no dreams or visions hazy, but as it is, oh well, gee whiz, I'm nearly going crazy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Dream by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw read for Libravox.org by Bookroom 360. A dear little dream came tripping into my life one day, crowning the hours with a halo and

Starting point is 00:56:09 perfumed them with the rose of May, and oh, how I coddled and loved it, I worshipped it night and day, I hugged it, embraced and caressed it, and pleaded with it to stay. But on the dawn of a cold gray morning, when I especially felt forlorn, I found it and oh, it was broken and shattered and bruised and torn. But still I know I shall keep it, and always remember the day, when I loved it, embraced and caressed it, sweet dream of the rose of May. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Little Girl by Jeanette Fraser Henshell, read for Libravox.org by Bookroom 360. I'm not fit for this office I'm holding in mothering you little girl, as your features I'm ever adoring, kissing each braid and curl. Such motherly nonsense you waken, way down in the soul of me.

Starting point is 00:56:58 The things that I missed longed for and loved, I'm beholding them all in thee. Oh, could I keep you ever, beside me with braid and curl? No shade of shame in your wide young eyes. My no known dear little girl, but God seems to will things different, and after a while you'll go, like the rest to have your sorrows and loves and cares and woe. For each life has its own experience, each soul, it's mute misery, you'll suffer I know in your grief alone, in your own Githsemini. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Take it from me by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw, read for Librevox.org by Lauren Fontaine. I get sick of washing dishes morning, night, and noon. Tired to sweeping cobwebs with a feministic broom. Sick a polishing of floorboards where there ain't no carpets laid.

Starting point is 00:57:54 Tire to make in shiny tumblers stand like soldiers on parade. Sick a make-believe-in' muffins is a pot of pork and beans. Sick a green tea masquerade and without granulated cream. Such things spoil my little meter detract glory from the rhyme. Sure it ain't no celebration making water tastes like wine. conservation gets me nowhere, only hoovering jam. Plague take the brooms and brushes. I wish I were a man. Then I'd sure go over yonder in the middle of the fuss and wallop him that's making such a darn fool out of us.

Starting point is 00:58:32 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A request by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Readfullybrox.org by Inkel. A request. You've asked me to write a few verses, I'm trying to grant the desire, but the strains that I love best are broken,

Starting point is 00:58:57 so this rhyme will be lacking in fire. Is it strange you think me dejected, for the furrows you see on my brow, are but tokens of useless endeavour to be what I'll never be now? My beautiful dreams have all perished, my ambitions were never fulfilled, I would that my heart and emotions

Starting point is 00:59:14 were dead as my dreams and is still. End of poem, the recordings in the public domain. Now and then, Jeanette Fraser Henshaw, Redfilly Brocks.org, by Inco. Now and then, back across the vanished years that I'll never see again, is a field of purple violets, where I wander now and then. Brighter than my vision keen, sweeter than my sweetest dream,

Starting point is 00:59:47 is the memory of that shady, purple glen. There's a cottage in a country, with the dreamfolk keep their dreams, it is bathed in mellow sunlight, lacy shadows fleck its beams, and since I'm turning grey, oftentimes they look away to that country where the leaves are always green. There's a lane or maple shaded and a limpid speckled pool, where white starry daisies nestled much more tempting than my school, and in memory's corridor where I keep my treasured store hangs a picture of that shady nook so cool. So oftentimes I fain would wander in the field and shady glen, and I'm yearning for the cottage, and the maple-speckled, lane, and though I'm turning grey, of the same will dream each day, just to pick those purple

Starting point is 01:00:35 violets now and then. End of poem, this recording's in the public domain. A reply to a gift by Jeanette Fraser Henshell, read for Libravox.org by T.R. Love on Valentine's Day, 2023. In remembrance of the happy days, was written on the card. More and many happy New Year's is the wish I'm wishing hard, touched to the core and speechless from the thoughts that filled my brain, and in fancy I turned backward to that friendship once again. And I clasp their hands in memory across the years of time. Truly friendship lives forever, defying age and wealth and climb. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Going Back by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw.

Starting point is 01:01:44 Read for Librabox.org by Curtis Richardson. Sometime, someday, I'm going back across the span of years and reason out the mystery of all my sighs and tears. I'll see the little hidden path, the road I could not find. Though faithfully I searched and searched missed hope and tears half blind. The kindness I'll understand meant only for my good. The actions back of all the things I so misunderstood. And how I chose the wrong way out, with gruesome doubts and fears,

Starting point is 01:02:26 then lost myself in all this maze of brooding bitter years. And how I longed so for the light, I had no peace or rest, and why the bridge I needless crossed, I'll know then what is best. I'll forward the restless, turbulent stream that crossed the beaten track. I'll finish out my broken dream sometime when I go back. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Sweetheart by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw.

Starting point is 01:03:09 Read for Librovocs.org by Lauren Fontaine. the borderland of mystic sleep, I take the vivid picture of her face. The daylight memories, the sweetnesses of her, are with my sleeping fancies interlaced. Black eyes like moonlight paths and dreams. Though love drunken, I still drink their magic, mist, and claim the charms that make life worth the cost, lips meant only for mine to kiss. I whisper to myself, Floreenza. That's her name. Each letter in itself a joy complete. With conscious pride, I link them with my own, and wonder why they sound so strangely sweet. Life has no charm if mine she may not be. First, sweetest, last, an only girl for me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:04:21 Jeanette Frazier Henshaw, read forlibbock.org. A friend like him I'll never find. He knew each mood that turned my mind. We did not need to speak. We understood. Without the aid of utterance, each word that friends in confidence are apt to speak.

Starting point is 01:04:54 He's dead. The tears flow down my cheek. My sorrow weighs me like a log. He was a true friend, my old dog. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. New Year's Memoirs by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw, read Philip Brooks.

Starting point is 01:05:26 by Inkel. New Year's Memoirs We have pictures in our memories From the well-remembered years When the vision grows the brighter When we glimpse it through our tears There's a circle of bright faces Rosie and the firelights glow

Starting point is 01:05:43 Each one happy and contented That was New Year's long ago Then the world all tempting, smiling Beckoned to them one and all And with dreamy face they listened To that never-ending call The time robbed the pleasant household And the heart is bare and cold

Starting point is 01:06:00 True, T'w'll never be rekindled As it was in days of old Some have tasted triumphs sweetness Some are happy, some are fair Some are comrades of disaster Some companions to despair For the battle cry lured many And the trench hold some to-night

Starting point is 01:06:17 Who will no more tomorrows Nevermore be called to fight Some have gathered gold a plenty from the world's rich bounder store. Some have travelled far, and maybe there'll be strangers evermore. Some have crossed the one dark river, and will never more be seen, till the trumpet of the master wakes us all from our last dream. End of poem. This recording to the public domain.

Starting point is 01:06:47 To One in Heaven by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw, read for Libravox.org by Riley. After you died, I could not bring myself to see. that I must kiss the cross and bear it patiently, that I must still go on and pulse with life and breath, while you have met the great adventure, death. And when I kissed you through my falling tears, I thought of all your busy, care-worn years.

Starting point is 01:07:14 Of all the bitter pain, my loss and then of this, perhaps even now you feel the heavenly kiss of balmy breezes in that distant born, from which no mortal ever did return. Perhaps your robes are made of lovely things beyond the power of my imaginings. And in that heaven we pictured up above, I hope God gives you all the things you love. I hope the angels welcome freely given. On this, your premature return to heaven.

Starting point is 01:07:48 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. As a woman sees it by Jeanette Fraser Henshel, read for Livreivoc's story. by Jess. War is paid for with our money and twice overpaid in pain and in years of anxious waiting while the teardrops fall like rain

Starting point is 01:08:15 while a few have gained the prestige and the power they long wished for unmindful of the sorrow in the little house next door. Oh we're true and love our country but we would not have it marred. We gloat over every emblem blue-crowned and crimson bard but we see past all the glory where waiting hearts are sore facing

Starting point is 01:08:42 cheerless sad tomorrows in a little house next door war is paid for by our husbands by the blood of precious sons but it's only hell no matter what's been paid or said or done and the few will have all glory and loves greeting after war but there will be no such tomorrows in some little house next door. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Gobblers Lament by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for Librevox.org by Deanna Lee. Yesterday an egg I was. Today a turkey fat.

Starting point is 01:09:33 I faced the chopping block with no white feather in my hat. My supple limbs are rudely tied. I'm cast in the woodshed. With thoughts of what a feast I'll be, for someone, when I'm dead. So I'll be butchered in my prime. It is, alas, my fate. No nobler cause but just to give some kid the stomach ache. Woe is me, my plumage too, that proudly I displayed, will make a pillow for the couch, a duster for the maid. It is, alack, a tragic fate, the end I sadly greet,

Starting point is 01:10:16 abandoned in my last lone hours, with fetters on my feet. This snowy linen has no charms, but this, my latest breath, a gobbler I have been in life, will gobbled me in death. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. America by Jeanette Fraser Henschel. Read for LibriVox.org by Segrica. A matchless broad horizon, abundant, healthful soil, yielding the farmer's treasures, and nature's pay for toil.

Starting point is 01:11:01 Serene, majestic mountains, cool streams sparkling down, set in the landscape's bosom, like jewels in a crown. It's a lover's love I give you, home of the golden rod. To the fore in its protection, to me is home and God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ex-Temporaneous by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libribox.org by Alan Mapstone.

Starting point is 01:11:38 My friends have all been asking, in a manner most polite, if I get any money or the dope I often write or if I get any laurels or a boost along toward fame does anybody praise me and does anybody blame

Starting point is 01:11:56 I can't answer all these questions in a satisfactory way for the other fellows saying the same things I want to say but I don't get any laurels for my literary dope nobody ever paid me for a blooming thing I've wrote.

Starting point is 01:12:15 I've written praise of Dr. S. I've roasted real estate. I've boosted times and ledgers at a ripping, speedy rate. Nobody ever thank me. Nobody ever blames. But I keep on writing verses and they print them just the same.

Starting point is 01:12:34 I will never be a millionaire or buy a little home with the money that I'm getting. There's no laurels on my money. don't i don't give a continental what the critics have to say they may give me blame or censor i will go my own sweet way they may give me blame or censor maybe lemons or soft soap they may rave and tear their whiskers when they read this awful dope i should worry for their laurels or their lemons or their praise i'll get what's coming to me at the parting of the way Then with hands serenely folded, I don't know, but yet they might. Put laurels on my forehead when I can no longer write. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:13:34 O Memories Dear, by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Readfully brogster talk by Inkel. O Memories Dear, my heart calls over the wide, bridgeless span, and I'm longing each day for a clasp of, your hands, my soul is a crater of burning old pain, come over the record and woe me again, O memory's sweet. The robins are calling, O can you not hear, or see from your dream port my fast-falling tear, The future is dark and my youth that has fled, and I, safe for anguish, I'm pulseless

Starting point is 01:14:05 and dead, O memories dear. Come over the crumbled vast waste of my dreams, I'm reaching my willing hands over the stream, I'm loving you still with each thought of my brain, Come over the the wreckage and woe me again, O memories dear. The myrtle and ivy are green on your grave, in the cold years I try to be cheerful and brave. Your features before me forever I'll keep, till I rest by your side in that long, dreamless sleep.

Starting point is 01:14:33 O memories dear. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. To a would-be husband. By Jeanette Frazier Henshal. Read forlibrovox.org by Bobby W. If she dresses to please you, do not look past her. Do not miss the love light lurking in the blue. Don't forget to praise her for her dimples.

Starting point is 01:15:04 For I know she'll do the same dear things for you. If the day's been long and cold and full of trouble, perhaps it's been the same with her at home. Do not turn her sunny June into December. Life's too short, and many of us go alone. If she's listless, tired, perhaps she's just love-hungry, if from her cheeks the roses fade away, do not forget the charms that used to lure you, and the dear old tender things you used to say. You've a right to smile as well as she of evenings.

Starting point is 01:15:44 She'll play up, I know, if you do your part. On this voyage that you're taking, son, remember, Life's too short to carry with us, broken hearts. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hom sick heart by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Librebox.org by Nikesha Luckett. Oh, I must go home again.

Starting point is 01:16:16 I can't sing, or work, or sleep. Even time is just the same. No ambition in my feet. Never knowing what I do, thoughts keep drifting back to you. Hom sick? Well, I suppose I is sick enough I know it's your for the welcome that I know just inside my cabindo. And the tooting of a train makes me wow for home again. There's a big lump in my throat and a tugging at my heart and a feeling I can't shake makes my eyelids sting and smart. Voices through the fallen brain calling me back home again.

Starting point is 01:16:54 thoughts of how the April rain makes the home flower sweet to pick Keep a trooping through my brain That's another lonesome trick And every time I hears a train I wants to go back home again End of poem This recording is in the public domain October by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw

Starting point is 01:17:22 Red for Libravox.org by Riley How can I write a fitting verse to hazy brown October when there's so very many things to make me sane and sober. The maple leaves are turning gold, Virginia Creeper Crimson. Amber tints across the field, bewildering and winsome. The war might be in Amsterdam, in Norwalk or New Haven. I'm still delighted with the way. Sweet nature's been behaving.

Starting point is 01:17:50 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. read for liverybox.org by Alan Matstone. In October The road might be enchanting, with a blaze of rose and gold, and rich ripe tints of crimson, like dream things never told. Then in unexpected places, at the river's sudden bend, you're restless and so eager, for the greeting at the end.

Starting point is 01:18:31 lonely places waiting, like harps with untuned strings, Silence and solitude, where only hearts can sing, But above it all emotion, like thought transmission sends, Just a hint of half the pleasure in the greeting at the end. There's a rift of autumn sunlight and dry leaves rustling, The uplands Blue Horizon and the wild geese on the, wing. Then there's warm hearts, kind and tender, with the words so quick to send, all the looked for joy and comfort, through the greeting at the end.

Starting point is 01:19:14 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Read for LibraVox.org by Nekisha Luckett. Sympathy. Thou medium through which another seems to feel and know and see. that another soul may languish for that strange thing sympathy. Human hearts lie silent, waiting, like the vial or the lute, for a touch of some vibration to stir the strings so strangely mute.

Starting point is 01:19:51 Human souls are also woven with the web of destiny, that they thrill and vibrate even at the thought of sympathy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. His last verse by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lindsay Montgomery. A scribbler with ambition wrote some charming verse. Some verses were inspiring. Some could not be worse. So the editors all canned him, shipped him back his charming dope. Then in tears and desperation,

Starting point is 01:20:34 these lines he sadly wrote. My pen is badly blunted. I've wrote verse by the score. I wrote about a Then again I wrote some more. I've used a lot of paper and postage stamps as well, and you never even thanked me, nor said my lines were swell. I do not mean to give offense, but I think you're mighty rude. I could cuss a blooming streak for your base in gratitude. If the printer's devil gets this and puts it on the shelf, have mercy for the author, for he has none for himself. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:21:22 Consolation by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Honey, though the winter has everything froze up, let's think about the violets and the fragrant lily cups. The long ferns dank and slender and the buds that burst their bloom. Let's forget the ice of winter in the joys of early June, and how the warm sun welcomes Mr. Robin on the wing, and the sweet crabapple blossoms are all coaxing him to sing.

Starting point is 01:21:59 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Deserted by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw, read for Librabox.org by Larry Wilson. Written by request. from the depths of despair where you left me to the merciless level of scorn then to moments of torture and anguish that rack me and leave me forlorn through night's pitiless darkness not sleeping unable to rest the night through still finding myself not believing the unexplained actions of you oft times my own memory appalls me tricks me into thinking of you and i find myself foolishly dreaming sweet dreams that will never come true the perfume of roses come stealing from out of the garden like wine but this heart knows no youth it is breaking and marks not the passing of time

Starting point is 01:23:03 god how can i go on i'm just human and how bare the rack and the pain instead of a throne where sits reason i've a place of torment for a brain There's moments of madness that sees me, and I ponder life's peaceful decline. And I wonder if death in his keeping keeps sorrows, and will he keep mine? End a poem. This recording is in the public domain. not sensing the daybreak, be numbed by the pain, of hours spent in longing to see you again. Hearing of voices, each one like your own, your features and visions like dreams never known. The days all unnumbered, nighttime is vain, when I am so longing to see you again. End of poem.

Starting point is 01:24:21 This recording is in the public domain. The Game of Life by Jeanette Frazier Henshel read forlibbinox.org by Bobby W. I keep thinking each day that I'm living in half the dark lonely night

Starting point is 01:24:42 of the problems that often perplex us and the heart-trending sorrows that vex us in this wearisome game we call life. I arise on the bright, dewy morning, with my plans all so cheerfully laid then a cloud unforeseen has arisen and dimmed the bright path of my vision and I'm suddenly cold and afraid

Starting point is 01:25:07 My hopes are all bright in the morning Contented I feel with my lot But before the noon hour and the evening I'm with troubles possessed and believing Life's useless and God has forgot So it is with us all in life's morning With faith in the future and trouble but at noontime our dreams are not master and we're facing misfortune's disaster and the picture

Starting point is 01:25:36 of dreams in the dust end of poem this recording is in the public domain marriage by janet fraser henshel read for livervox.org by bobby w whether it's heaven or whether it's hell or whether it's in between whether it's oodles of joyous bliss or a broken shattered dream it may be neutrality war or peace a story too sweet to tell the word may stand for a world of things whether it's heaven or hell end of poem this recording is in the public domain friends by jeanet fraser hinsh read for Libravox.org by Nekisha Luckett. Friends For the falseness of our comrades,

Starting point is 01:26:49 time never makes amends, save when we stop to ponder the loveliness of friends. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Goodbyes by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Once I had a little playmate

Starting point is 01:27:15 in the dear days long ago. We were always together, for we loved each other so. One day she came and kissed me with the tear drops in her eye. Then in my little notebook I wrote my first goodbye. Then pure, sweet love came swiftly into my life one day, and for a while my happiness was sweet as life's young May. He kissed my lips and forehead. We parted with a sigh,

Starting point is 01:27:41 and I thought my heart was breaking when I wrote, Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. I wrote goodbye in sorrow to the dearest little chum. I and my schoolmates wrote it when our parting days had come. Then to sisters and my brothers, and to the old folks, oh, the pain I suffered when we parted. And I wrote goodbye again. Then on my marriage morning, when I became a wife, I wrote farewell forever to my single carefree life. I face the future bravely, without a tear or sigh.

Starting point is 01:28:17 Quite cheerfully across the page, three times I wrote goodbye. I've said goodbye in sunshine. I've called it through the rain. I've heard it said with laughter and sobbed through lips of pain. Perhaps when death comes creeping to dim my brightening eye, I'll stay his clammy hand until I write my last goodbye. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Come back again. friends by Jeanette Frazier Henshal.

Starting point is 01:28:57 Read for Librivox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Christmas Day seems glorious, with its wealth of gift and cheer, but the thing that makes it lovely is a true friend somewhere near. And they're wishing you more New Year's and you're wishing them the same, and when evening shadows part you, you invite them back again. The sunshine seems the brighter for their added bit of cheer, and our burdens seem the lighter when their sunny face is near. And you say, come back tomorrow, come back and back again.

Starting point is 01:29:32 You cannot come too often or stay too long, my friend. Oh, Howie strew the blossoms above our precious dead, and leave heartbreaks unmended and the tender things unsaid. In life one's time is precious, but tweed ease and ache or pain if we'd whisper, genuinely, When I'm lonely, come again. So when you're summing up my failings and my fault so tenderly, remember, you're the pattern of the friend I'd like to be.

Starting point is 01:30:05 Though my failings cause you sorrow and my blunders give you pain, forgive me, oh, forgive me, and be sure and come again. Your friend, Jeanette Henshaw. End of poem. This recording is in the public. Domain. Earlier poems. Take Me Back, Written When a Child, by Jeanette Frazier Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. Take me back, oh mother do, where my boyfriends were true blue, where I had my little bedroom way upstairs where a dozen boys or more came to play at our

Starting point is 01:30:52 back door. Though we tracked in snow, it seemed you didn't care. We used to have a blazing hear, and our home was filled with mirth. Oh, I hate this living in a measly flat, and it seems my mother, dear, when you moved us all out here, that you shipped your loving family off the map. Oh, at night I cannot sleep, though I count a million sheep. I'm so lonesome I could dig myself a grave. Dear Ma, have a heart for me. You only say you real cross to me, you better hush your crying and behave. I'm so lonesome. Take me back to my little playmate, Jack. Can't you see that I must play just all alone? I don't like it here at all.

Starting point is 01:31:36 And before the Robbins call, I'll pack my little grip and go back home. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Old Garrett by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. In the dark and dim old Garrett beneath the slanting roof, there's a tale told in a moment. quite enough to fill a book. Oh, what thoughts I weave in fancy, and my tears they flow in vain.

Starting point is 01:32:14 My sadness is re-echoed by the falling of the rain. In the far-off, tiny corner, dusty and begrimed with age, stands a desk once used by children, on its shelf a blotted page. I turn my face to hide a teardrop, and my heart nigh breaks with pain, as I listen to the falling, the gentle springtime rain. Esther's little dolls and playthings, Jimmy's engine on the floor, two pairs of wee-worn booties, either side the crumbling door. In fancy I can see them and hear their voice again, while the raindrops make me music on the Garrett window pane. I see two little figures pleading for a good-night kiss, and in fancy I embrace them in their innocence and bliss, but they've gone away forever. Advancing years have played the game, and my eyes are filled with tears as I

Starting point is 01:33:14 listen to the rain. But in spite of tears, I smiled at the pictures on the wall, that childish hands had painted dearer to me than all. So the garret told its story, and my heart is racked with pain. Thus, I fall asleep, listening to the patter of the rain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Sad Tea Time by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw. Read for Libravox.org by Lauren Fontaine. I was awful sorry when, as Ma says, Brother Wed, it just doesn't seem like home at all.

Starting point is 01:33:59 I'd just as soon be dead. But he got the nicest kind of wife. She's as sweet as she can be. The only time it feels like home is when they come to tea. Ma makes the nice. Nicest kind of cake with coconut on top. She has plumb pies and pudding and tater's steaming hot. Then after that, around the fire, Big Brother sings to me.

Starting point is 01:34:22 So I have the bestest kind of fun when they both come to tea. But when he goes away again, it makes me feel so bad, and I wonder who will be the next to make Ma's heart feel sad. She smiles a funny kind of smile and says it might be me. I couldn't think of such a thing. Could you? What? Jiminy.

Starting point is 01:34:42 Father's hair is getting white, mother's growing thin. Sometimes I see the teardrops start and drop off from her chin. There used to be whole six of us, but now there's only three. The vacant place makes me feel blue when we gather around to tea. Could you think of me away from home? Away? Away, far off, away from my dear ma and pa where everything is rough? No, I've decided here and my.

Starting point is 01:35:12 now that I will always be right close to my own pa and ma and always home for tea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nightmare by Jeanette Fraser Henshell, read for LibraFox.org by TR. Love on Valentine's Day, 2023. We rushed through the night or an unthought-off road. We can fly like a bird and hop like a toad. We could have oogles and oogles and oogles of fun, but our clothes all come off, and we never can run. The troubles we have are heap much galore, for we're

Starting point is 01:36:01 bare as a bird in some grocery store. We go chasing around in this fool of a dream, a dear little sweetheart, all peaches and cream, till quick as a flash, oh much quicker than that, she turns into a dude with a pink-laced cravat. To our horror, we're left by someone in the lurch, dressed just in pajamas inside of the church. Feeling less than a penny, we're awfully sore, while trying to find an impossible door. At last, we're released by a strange little elf, stranger than ever, dressed just like ourselves. We ride on the moon through oceans of blue, in spite of apparel, we're enjoying it, too.

Starting point is 01:36:47 In a minute we fall to the earth like a stone, then ponder another mad flight through the zone. We land in Paris with servants so sleek and live to the tune of a million a week. Then biff, in a jiffy, were struck on the bean, awakened at last from that nightmarish dream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibraVox.org by Riley. Happy Molly had a smile for everyone she met. Happy Molly was some baby, you can surely bet.

Starting point is 01:37:32 Molly also was a winner everywhere she went, but she married a mean sinner without pause consent. Happy Molly was not happy after she was wed, and I know that she'd much rather have been dead. Troubles followed Molly's marriage, about nine or maybe ten. neighbors vied with one another that she'd never smile again. After many years of trouble and accumulated fat,

Starting point is 01:37:58 which made poor tortured Molly look like the U.S. map. This ends my tragic story. Everything's been said. Wipe the tear from your left glimmer. Happy Molly's dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Wishes by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw.

Starting point is 01:38:23 Read for LibreFox.org. Riley. I wish I could have a dear little dream that nobody else could smash. I wish I could build a castle that wouldn't come down with a crash. Wish I had a dollar that wouldn't be spent and a rose that would not fade away. I wish that life's winter were sweeter by far than the sunshine and blossoms of May. Wish I had a laugh that knew when to laugh and a tear when it ought to be shed. The right thing to say for the good and the bad, the same for the living and dead. I wish for a friend who would always be true for a hand to help those who are down. I wish my illusions, ideals, and dreams refuse to be faded and brown. Wish I always had a kind word for the old, the same for the

Starting point is 01:39:13 frolicing young, in moments of sorrow, temptations, and pride for a bridle to be put on my tongue. Indeed, if these wishes were granted to me and to the rest of the world one and all. Faith, we'd have little need of the Bible or Christ, and we wouldn't need heaven at all. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Angel's Mission by Jeanette Fraser Hinshaw. Red Furleybravox.org by Riley. An angel had a mission on the frost white world below, so left the gates of heaven through swirling clouds of snow. On a dark street all forsaken was a poor child in despair, kneeling in the frost

Starting point is 01:40:02 and cold, she breathed this tiny prayer. For just one friend, the angel heard and very strangely smiled at such an ancient time-worn prayer from such a little child. The angel touched the child's cold face and straight away dried each tear. The child a wondering at the face so much marvelously dear. No more the little child was cold, no longer left alone. That countenance that was so dear was but the Lord's Crystone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Since Mama's Gone Away by Jeanette Fraser Henshaw, Readfullybrooks.org by Inkel. Since Mama's gone away, everything's as dark and black, just as dark as night, since they took Mama away from me, way from out my sight, and it's oh, so dark and cold, even through the day,

Starting point is 01:41:05 there isn't any fun at all since Mama's gone away. There's no one now to smooth my hair and pat my burning cheek, to tuck me up at night in bed or cover up my feet. There's no one now to laugh and talk and do like Mama did. She's gone to heaven to live up there. That is what the preacher said. But everything is covered round, with sadness. and with gloom that didn't promise me at all that I'd see my mama soon. The thing that puzzles me the most, and I would like to know, how she can stay away so long from me, her only boy. What folks say about you doesn't matter,

Starting point is 01:41:44 or the thinking only matters less, but when the clover waves above you, to a friend who truly loves you, you're like a sweet remember dream of happiness. End of poem. This recording's in the public domain. Lest We Forget by Jeanette Fraser Henssel, read forlibrovox.org by Bobby W. When life is all December and the lowering clouds of fate

Starting point is 01:42:17 seem to turn your humble pathway into storm and dread and hate. When the daily path is dripping with the cold rains of despair, and there's not a cheering glimmer round the debris anywhere. When you long for understanding in a hand-clasp warm and true, it's as well that you remember, such luxuries are few. When the future is not tempting, and the past is just as gray, and the end of all your troubles seem a weary age away.

Starting point is 01:42:55 When the friendship that you long for, and the smile you often crave, have no deeper, subtle meaning, and the world is cold and grave. When you're looking for a something that will thrill you through and through, it's as well that you remember. Such luxuries are few.

Starting point is 01:43:18 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bless the Boy by Jeanette Fraser Henshow. Redforlibbock.org To Mr. Cowan. I wish, dear sir, to beg of you, to please grant me the pleasure. In writing just a line or two, bid welcome to your treasure.

Starting point is 01:43:53 Many may rejoice with you. May nothing mar your joy. I, for one, doth plead of heaven, a blessing for your boy. and innocent, sweet and fair, spotless, costly, priceless gem, dropped as a star from yonder heaven among the ways of men. The path for him may rugged be, it may be jury, rough and wild. Whatever may be in the plan, may heaven protect the child. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

Starting point is 01:44:49 End of Stardust by Jeanette Fraser Henshow.

Classic Audiobook Collection - Star Dust by Jeannette Fraser Henshall ~ Full Audiobook [poetry]

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