Robert Browning read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past.

---------------------------------------------

 The Lost Mistress
by Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)

All 's over, then: does truth sound bitter
    As one at first believes?
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter
    About your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,
    I noticed that, to-day;
One day more bursts them open fully
    —You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
    May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest
    Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
    Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
    Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
    Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
    Or so very little longer!


Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

607. The Lost Mistress by Robert Browning

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.
See more at: www.classicpoetryaloud.com

Arts

Literature

Performing Arts

Design

Food

Fashion & Beauty

Visual Arts

Books

Edgar Allan Poe read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past.

---------------------------------------------------

Annabel Lee 

by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

It was many and many a year ago,   
    In a kingdom by the sea,   
That a maiden there lived whom you may know   
    By the name of Annabel Lee;   
And this maiden she lived with no other thought        
    Than to love and be loved by me.   
   
I was a child and she was a child,   
    In this kingdom by the sea,   
But we loved with a love that was more than love,   
    I and my Annabel Lee;   
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven   
    Coveted her and me.   
   
And this was the reason that, long ago,   
    In this kingdom by the sea,   
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;   
So that her highborn kinsmen came   
    And bore her away from me,   
To shut her up in a sepulchre   
    In this kingdom by the sea.  
   
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,   
    Went envying her and me;   
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,   
    In this kingdom by the sea)   
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.   
   
But our love it was stronger by far than the love   
    Of those who were older than we,   
    Of many far wiser than we;   
And neither the angels in heaven above,  
    Nor the demons down under the sea,   
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul   
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:   
   
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams   
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes   
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;   
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side   
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,   
    In her sepulchre there by the sea,   
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.   


Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

621: Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

Ralph Waldo Emerson read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past.
------------------------------------------------

 The Snow-Storm 
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

620. The Snow Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rudyard Kipling read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past. 

---------------------------------------------------

If
by Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)

If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2007.

619. If by Rudyard Kipling

Dollie Radford read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past.

---------------------------------------

December
by Dollie Radford (1858 – 1920)


No gardener need go far to find
    The Christmas rose,
The fairest of the flowers that mark
    The sweet Year's close:
Nor be in quest of places where
    The hollies grow,
Nor seek for sacred trees that hold
    The mistletoe.
All kindly tended gardens love
    December days,
And spread their latest riches out
    In winter's praise.
But every gardener's work this month
    Must surely be
To choose a very beautiful
    Big Christmas tree,
And see it through the open door
    In triumph ride,
To reign a glorious reign within
    At Christmas-tide.


Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2009

618. December by Dollie Radford

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  read by Classic Poetry Aloud

www.classicpoetryaloud.com
Twitter: @classicpoetry
Facebook: www.facebook.com/poetryaloud

Giving voice to the poetry of the past.

--------------------------------------------

The Arrow and the Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882) 

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

607. The Lost Mistress by Robert Browning

Download our free app to listen on your phone