Classic Poetry Aloud

Classic Poetry Aloud

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Classic Poetry Aloud episodes

  • I Stood Musing in a Black World by Stephen Crane
    Crane read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    I Stood Musing in a Black World
    by Stephen Crane (1871 – 1900)
    I stood musing in a black world,
    Not knowing where to direct my feet.
    And I saw the quick stream of men
    Pouring ceaselessly,
    Filled with eager faces,
    A torrent of desire.
    I called to them,
    "Where do you go? What do you see?"
    A thousand voices called to me.
    A thousand fingers pointed.
    "Look! look! There!"
    I know not of it.
    But, lo! In the far sky shone a radiance
    Ineffable, divine --
    A vision painted upon a pall;
    And sometimes it was,
    And sometimes it was not.
    I hesitated.
    Then from the stream
    Came roaring voices,
    Impatient:
    "Look! look! There!"
    So again I saw,
    And leaped, unhesitant,
    And struggled and fumed
    With outspread clutching fingers.
    The hard hills tore my flesh;
    The ways bit my feet.
    At last I looked again.
    No radiance in the far sky,
    Ineffable, divine;
    No vision painted upon a pall;
    And always my eyes ached for the light.
    Then I cried in despair,
    "I see nothing! Oh, where do I go?"
    The torrent turned again its faces:
    "Look! look! There!"
    And at the blindness of my spirit
    They screamed,
    "Fool! fool! fool!"
    2 min
  • I Love You by Ella Wilcox
    Wilcox read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    I Love You
    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 – 1919)
    I love your lips when they're wet with wine
    And red with a wild desire;
    I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
    Lit with a passionate fire.
    I love your arms when the warm white flesh
    Touches mine in a fond embrace;
    I love your hair when the strands enmesh
    Your kisses against my face.
    Not for me the cold calm kiss
    Of a virgin's bloodless love;
    Not for me the saint's white bliss,
    Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
    But give me the love that so freely gives
    And laughs at the whole world's blame,
    With your body so young and warm in my arms,
    It sets my poor heart aflame.
    So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
    Still fragrant with ruby wine,
    And say with a fervour born of the South
    That your body and soul are mine.
    Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
    While the pale stars shine above,
    And we'll live our whole young lives away
    In the joys of a living love.
    2 min
  • Last Lines by Emily Bronte
    Emily Bronte read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Last Lines
    by Emily Bronte (1818 – 1848)
    No coward soul is mine,
    No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:
    I see Heaven’s glories shine,
    And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
    O God within my breast,
    Almighty, ever-present Deity!
    Life—that in me has rest,
    As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!
    Vain are the thousand creeds
    That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;
    Worthless as wither’d weeds,
    Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
    To waken doubt in one
    Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
    So surely anchor’d on
    The steadfast rock of immortality.
    With wide-embracing love
    Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
    Pervades and broods above,
    Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
    Though earth and man were gone,
    And suns and universes cease to be,
    And Thou were left alone,
    Every existence would exist in Thee.
    There is not room for Death,
    Nor atom that his might could render void:
    Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,
    And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
    3 min
  • Band of Brother speech from Henry V by William Shakespeare
    Shakespeare read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    from Henry V
    by William Shakespeare
    KING. What's he that wishes so?
    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
    God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more methinks would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
    We would not die in that man's company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.
    This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But he'll remember, with advantages,
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his mouth as household words-
    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered-
    We few, we happy few, we band of brother;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition;
    And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!
    4 min
  • Ball’s Bluff by Herman Melville
    Melville read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Ball’s Bluff
    by Herman Melville (1819 – 1891)
    One noonday, at my window in the town,
    I saw a sight - saddest that eyes can see -
    Young soldiers marching lustily
    Unto the wars,
    With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;
    While all the porches, walks, and doors
    Were rich with ladies cheering royally.
    They moved like Juny morning on the wave,
    Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
    (It was the breezy summer time),
    Life throbbed so strong,
    How should they dream that Death in rosy clime
    Would come to thin their shining throng?
    Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.
    Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
    By nights I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
    On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
    Some marching feet
    Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;
    Wakeful I mused, while in the street
    Far footfalls died away till none were left.
    2 min
  • The Man with the Wooden Leg by Katherine Mansfield
    Mansfield read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Man with the Wooden Leg
    by Katherine Mansfield (1888 - 1923)
    There was a man lived quite near us;
    He had a wooden leg and a goldfinch in a green cage.
    His name was Farkey Anderson,
    And he'd been in a war to get his leg.
    We were very sad about him,
    Because he had such a beautiful smile
    And was such a big man to live in a very small house.
    When he walked on the road his leg did not matter so much;
    But when he walked in his little house
    It made an ugly noise.
    Little Brother said his goldfinch sang the loudest of all birds,
    So that he should not hear his poor leg
    And feel too sorry about it.
    2 min
  • Fears in Solitude by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    Coleridge read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Fears in Solitude
    by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    Thankless too for peace,
    (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
    Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
    To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
    Alas! for ages ignorant of all
    Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
    Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
    We, this whole people, have been clamorous
    For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
    The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
    Spectators and not combatants! No guess
    Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
    No speculation on contingency,
    However dim and vague, too vague and dim
    To yield a justifying cause; and forth,
    (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,
    And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)
    We send our mandates for the certain death
    Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
    And women, that would groan to see a child
    Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
    The best amusement for our morning meal!
    The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
    From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
    To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
    Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
    And technical in victories and defeats,
    And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
    Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
    Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which
    We join no feeling and attach no form!
    As if the soldier died without a wound;
    As if the fibres of this godlike frame
    Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
    Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
    Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;
    As though he had no wife to pine for him,
    No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
    Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
    And what if all-avenging Providence,
    Strong and retributive, should make us know
    The meaning of our words, force us to feel
    The desolation and the agony
    Of our fierce doings?
    6 min
  • Occasional Miscellany: War Poetry Week
    War Poetry Week on Classic Poetry Aloud will include:
    • From fears in solitude – Coleridge
    • The man with the wooden leg – Mansfield
    • Balls Bluff – Herman Melville
    • A speech from Henry V – Shakespeare
    • The Soldier – Rupert Brooke
    • Strange Meeting – Wilfred Owen
    • And, on Sunday, From ‘for the fallen’ by Lawrence Binyon.
    To begin with, two poems taken from Kipling’s ‘Epitaphs of the Great War’, compiled after the war, and one letter, from his son.
    A Dead Statesman
    I could not dig: I dared not rob:
    Therefore I lied to please the mob.
    Now all my lies are proved untrue
    And I must face the men I slew.
    What tale shall serve me here among
    Mine angry and defrauded young?"
    The Last Letter of John Kipling
    Dear F -
    Just a hurried line as we start off tonight. The front line trenches are nine miles off from here so it wont be a very long march.
    This is THE great effort to break through & end the war.
    The guns have been going deafeningly all day, without a single stop.
    We have to push through at all costs so we won't have much time in the trenches, which is great luck.
    Funny to think one will be in the thick of it tomorrow.
    One's first experience of shell fire not in the trenches but in the open.
    This is one of the advantages of a Flying Division, you have to keep moving.
    We marched 18 miles last night in the pouring wet.
    It came down in sheets steadily.
    They are staking a tremendous lot on this great advancing movement as if it succeeds the war won't go on for long.
    You have no idea what enormous issues depend on the next few days.
    This will be my last letter most likely for some time as we won't get any time for writing this next week, but I will try & send Field post cards.
    Well so long old dears.
    Dear love
    John
    Epitaph
    If any question why we died,
    Tell them, because our fathers lied.
    6 min
  • Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms by Thomas Moore
    Thomas Moore read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
    by Thomas Moore (1779 – 18f2)
    Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
    Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
    Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
    Live fairy-gifts fading away,
    Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
    Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
    And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
    Would entwine itself verdantly still.
    It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
    And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
    That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
    To which time will but make thee more dear!
    No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
    But as truly loves on to the close,
    As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
    The same look which she turned when he rose!
    2 min
  • The Song of the Shirt by Thomas Hood
    Thomas Hood read by Classic Poetry Aloud:
    http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/
    Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
    ---------------------------------------------------
    The Song of the Shirt
    by Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845)
    With fingers weary and worn,
    With eyelids heavy and red,
    A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
    Plying her needle and thread—
    Stitch! stitch! stitch!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
    And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
    She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”
    “Work! work! work!
    While the cock is crowing aloof!
    And work—work—work,
    Till the stars shine through the roof!
    It ’s Oh! to be a slave
    Along with the barbarous Turk,
    Where woman has never a soul to save,
    If this is Christian work!
    “Work—work—work
    Till the brain begins to swim;
    Work—work—work
    Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
    Seam, and gusset, and band,
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
    Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
    And sew them on in a dream!
    “Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
    Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
    It is not linen you ’re wearing out,
    But human creatures’ lives!
    Stitch—stitch—stitch,
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
    Sewing at once, with a double thread,
    A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
    “But why do I talk of Death?
    That Phantom of grisly bone,
    I hardly fear his terrible shape,
    It seems so like my own—
    It seems so like my own,
    Because of the fasts I keep;
    Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
    And flesh and blood so cheap!
    “Work—work—work!
    My labor never flags;
    And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
    A crust of bread—and rags.
    That shatter’d roof—and this naked floor—
    A table—a broken chair—
    And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
    For sometimes falling there.
    “Work—work—work!
    From weary chime to chime,
    Work—work—work,
    As prisoners work for crime!
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
    Seam, and gusset, and band,
    Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
    As well as the weary hand.
    “Work—work—work,
    In the dull December light,
    And work—work—work,
    When the weather is warm and bright,
    While underneath the eaves
    The brooding swallows cling
    As if to show me their sunny backs
    And twit me with the spring.
    “Oh! but to breathe the breath
    Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
    With the sky above my head,
    And the grass beneath my feet,
    For only one short hour
    To feel as I used to feel,
    Before I knew the woes of want
    And the walk that costs a meal,
    “Oh, but for one short hour!
    A respite however brief!
    No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
    But only time for Grief!
    A little weeping would ease my heart,
    But in their briny bed
    My tears must stop, for every drop
    Hinders needle and thread!”
    With fingers weary and worn,
    With eyelids heavy and red,
    A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
    Plying her needle and thread—
    Stitch! stitch! stitch!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
    And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
    Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
    She sang this “ Song of the Shirt!”
    5 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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  2. Number 2: 619. If by Rudyard Kipling
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