Classic Poetry Aloud

Classic Poetry Aloud

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Classic Poetry Aloud episodes

  • Alone by Edgar Allan Poe
    Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Alone
    by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)
    From childhood's hour I have not been
    As others were; I have not seen
    As others saw; I could not bring
    My passions from a common spring.
    From the same source I have not taken
    My sorrow; I could not awaken
    My heart to joy at the same tone;
    And all I loved, I loved alone.
    Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
    Of a most stormy life- was drawn
    From every depth of good and ill
    The mystery which binds me still:
    From the torrent, or the fountain,
    From the red cliff of the mountain,
    From the sun that round me rolled
    In its autumn tint of gold,
    From the lightning in the sky
    As it passed me flying by,
    From the thunder and the storm,
    And the cloud that took the form
    (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
    Of a demon in my view.
    2 min
  • Love Lives Beyond The Tomb by John Clare
    Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Love Lives Beyond The Tomb
    by John Clare (1793 – 1864)
    Love lives beyond the tomb,
    And earth, which fades like dew!
    I love the fond,
    The faithful, and the true.
    Love lives in sleep:
    'Tis happiness of healthy dreams:
    Eve's dews may weep,
    But love delightful seems.
    'Tis seen in flowers,
    And in the morning's pearly dew;
    In earth's green hours,
    And in the heaven's eternal blue.
    'Tis heard in Spring
    When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
    On angel's wing
    Bring love and music to the mind.
    And where's the voice,
    So young, so beautiful, and sweet
    As Nature's choice,
    Where Spring and lovers meet?
    Love lives beyond the tomb,
    And earth, which fades like dew!
    I love the fond,
    The faithful, and the true.
    2 min
  • The Ecstasy by John Donne
    Donne read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Ecstasy
    by John Donne (1572 – 1631)
    Where, like a pillow on a bed,
    A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest
    The violet's reclining head,
    Sat we two, one another's best.
    Our hands were firmly cemented
    By a fast balm which thence did spring;
    Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
    Our eyes upon one double string.
    So to engraft our hands, as yet
    Was all the means to make us one;
    And pictures in our eyes to get
    Was all our propagation.
    As 'twixt two equal armies Fate
    Suspends uncertain victory,
    Our souls—which to advance their state
    Were gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.
    And whilst our souls negotiate there,
    We like sepulchral statues lay;
    All day the same our postures were,
    And we said nothing, all the day.
    3 min
  • The Instinct Of Hope by John Clare
    Clare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Instinct Of Hope
    by John Clare (1793 – 1864)
    Is there another world for this frail dust
    To warm with life and be itself again?
    Something about me daily speaks there must,
    And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
    'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
    And everything seems struggling to explain
    The close sealed volume of its mystery.
    Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
    As seeming anxious of eternity,
    To meet that calm and find a resting place.
    E'en the small violet feels a future power
    And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
    And surely man is no inferior flower
    To die unworthy of a second spring?
    2 min
  • To the Virgins to make much of Time by Robert Herrick
    R Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    To the Virgins to make much of Time
    by Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674)
    Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
    Old Time is still a-flying:
    And this same flower that smiles to-day
    To-morrow will be dying.
    The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
    The higher he's a-getting,
    The sooner will his race be run,
    And nearer he's to setting.
    That age is best which is the first,
    When youth and blood are warmer;
    But being spent, the worse, and worst
    Times still succeed the former.
    Then be not coy, but use your time,
    And while ye may, go marry:
    For having lost but once your prime,
    You may for ever tarry.
    First aired: 11 December 2007
    For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.
    Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008
    2 min
  • On a certain Lady at Court by Alexander Pope
    Pope read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    On a certain Lady at Court
    by Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744)
    I know a thing that 's most uncommon;
    (Envy, be silent and attend!)
    I know a reasonable woman,
    Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
    Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour;
    Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;
    An equal mixture of good-humour
    And sensible soft melancholy.
    'Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?'
    Yes, she has one, I must aver:
    When all the world conspires to praise her,
    The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
    2 min
  • The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred Lord Tennyson
    Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Lotos-Eaters
    by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
    “Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land,
    “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”
    In the afternoon they came unto a land
    In which it seemed always afternoon.
    All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
    Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
    Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
    And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream
    Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
    A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
    Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
    And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke,
    Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
    They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
    From the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops,
    Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
    Stood sunset-flush’d; and, dew’d with showery drops,
    Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
    The charmed sunset linger’d low adown
    In the red West; thro’ mountain clefts the dale
    Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
    Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale
    And meadow, set with slender galingale;
    A land where all things always seem’d the same!
    And round about the keel with faces pale,
    Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
    The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
    Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
    Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
    To each, but whoso did receive of them
    And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
    Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
    On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
    His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
    And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,
    And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
    They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
    Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
    And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
    Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
    Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
    Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
    Then some one said, “We will return no more;”
    And all at once they sang, “Our island home
    Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
    CHORIC SONG
    I
    There is sweet music here that softer falls
    Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
    Or night-dews on still waters between walls
    Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
    Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
    Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;
    Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
    Here are cool mosses deep,
    And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
    And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
    And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
    II
    Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,
    And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
    While all things else have rest from weariness?
    All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
    We only toil, who are the first of things,
    And make perpetual moan,
    Still from one sorrow to another thrown;
    Nor ever fold our wings,
    And cease from wanderings,
    Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;
    Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
    “There is no joy but calm!”—
    Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
    III
    Lo! in the middle of the wood,
    The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud
    With winds upon the branch, and there
    Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
    Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon
    Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
    Falls, and floats adown the air.
    Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,
    The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
    Drops in a silent autumn night.
    All its allotted length of days
    The flower ripens in its place,
    Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
    Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
    IV
    Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
    Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
    Death is the end of life; ah, why
    Should life all labor be?
    Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
    And in a little while our lips are dumb.
    Let us alone. What is it that will last?
    All things are taken from us, and become
    Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
    Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
    To war with evil? Is there any peace
    In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
    All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
    In silence—ripen, fall, and cease:
    Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
    V
    How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
    With half-shut eyes ever to seem
    Falling asleep in a half-dream!
    To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
    Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
    To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;
    Eating the Lotos day by day,
    To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
    And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
    To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
    To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
    To muse and brood and live again in memory,
    With those old faces of our infancy
    Heap’d over with a mound of grass,
    Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
    VI
    Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
    And dear the last embraces of our wives
    And their warm tears; but all hath suffer’d change;
    For surely now our household hearths are cold,
    Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange,
    And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
    Or else the island princes over-bold
    Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
    Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy,
    And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
    Is there confusion in the little isle?
    Let what is broken so remain.
    The Gods are hard to reconcile;
    ’Tis hard to settle order once again.
    There is confusion worse than death,
    Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
    Long labor unto aged breath,
    Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars
    And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
    VII
    But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly,
    How sweet—while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly—
    With half-dropped eyelids still,
    Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
    To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
    His waters from the purple hill—
    To hear the dewy echoes calling
    From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine—
    To watch the emerald-color’d water falling
    Thro’ many a woven acanthus-wreath divine!
    Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
    Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.
    VIII
    The Lotos blooms below the barren peak,
    The Lotos blows by every winding creek;
    All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone;
    Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone
    Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
    We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
    Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
    Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
    Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
    In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
    On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
    For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d
    Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d
    Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world;
    Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
    Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
    Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
    But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
    Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
    Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;
    Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
    Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
    Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
    Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell
    Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
    Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
    Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
    Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
    O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
    13 min
  • The Old Familiar Faces by Charles Lamb
    Lamb read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Old Familiar Faces
    by Charles Lamb (1775–1834)
    I have had playmates, I have had companions,
    In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days -
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
    I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
    Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies -
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
    I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
    Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her -
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
    I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
    Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
    Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
    Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
    Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
    Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
    Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
    Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
    So might we talk of the old familiar faces -
    How some they have died, and some they have left me,
    And some are taken from me; all are departed -
    All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
    3 min
  • Go Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller
    Waller read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Go, lovely Rose
    by Edmund Waller (1606 – 1687)
    Go, lovely Rose—
    Tell her that wastes her time and me,
    That now she knows,
    When I resemble her to thee,
    How sweet and fair she seems to be.
    Tell her that 's young,
    And shuns to have her graces spied,
    That hadst thou sprung
    In deserts where no men abide,
    Thou must have uncommended died.
    Small is the worth
    Of beauty from the light retired:
    Bid her come forth,
    Suffer herself to be desired,
    And not blush so to be admired.
    Then die—that she
    The common fate of all things rare
    May read in thee;
    How small a part of time they share
    That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
    2 min
  • My Delight and Thy Delight by Robert Bridges
    Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    My Delight and Thy Delight
    by Robert Bridges (1844 – 1930)
    My delight and thy delight
    Walking, like two angels white,
    In the gardens of the night:
    My desire and thy desire
    Twining to a tongue of fire,
    Leaping live, and laughing higher:
    Thro' the everlasting strife
    In the mystery of life.
    Love, from whom the world begun,
    Hath the secret of the sun.
    Love can tell, and love alone,
    Whence the million stars were strewn,
    Why each atom knows its own,
    How, in spite of woe and death,
    Gay is life, and sweet is breath:
    This he taught us, this we knew,
    Happy in his science true,
    Hand in hand as we stood
    'Neath the shadows of the wood,
    Heart to heart as we lay
    In the dawning of the day.
    2 min

About Classic Poetry Aloud

From the publisher's feed

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

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