Classic Poetry Aloud

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from the vault: To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Apr 12, 2008

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(first aired July 2007) Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/ Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Has we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

His Winding Sheet by Robert Herrick Apr 10, 2008

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Herrick read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- His Winding Sheet by Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674) Come thou, who are the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest. Thou art of what I did intend The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet. Come then and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride: We two, as reliques left, will have Once rest, one grave: And hugging close, we will not fear Lust entering here: Where all desires are dead and cold As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be From shackles free: And weeping widows long oppress'd Do here find rest. The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause. Here those long suits of Chancery lie Quiet, or die: And all Star-Chamber bills do cease Or hold their peace. Here needs no Court for our Request Where all are best, All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown: Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. In this securer place we'll keep As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie As robes laid by; To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn: Or like old testaments engross'd, Lock'd up, not lost. And for a while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next at the great Platonick year, And then meet here.

Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis by James Elroy Flecker Apr 10, 2008

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Flecker read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis by James Elroy Flecker (1884 – 1915) Come, let me kiss your wistful face Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain, And live sweet days and bitter days With you, or wanting you again. I dread your perishable gold: Come near me now; the years are few. Alas, when you and I are old I shall not want to look at you: And yet come in. I shall not dare To gaze upon your countenance, But I shall huddle in my chair, Turn to the fire my fireless glance, And listen, while that slow and grave Immutable sweet voice of yours Rises and falls, as falls a wave In summer on forgotten shores.

Love by George Herbert Apr 09, 2008

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Herbert read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Love by George Herbert (1593 – 1632) Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack'd anything. 'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:' Love said, 'You shall be he.' 'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee.' Love took my hand and smiling did reply, 'Who made the eyes but I?' 'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve.' 'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?' 'My dear, then I will serve.' 'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.' So I did sit and eat.

The Pilgrimage by Sir Walter Raleigh Apr 08, 2008

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Raleigh read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- The Pilgrimage by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 – 1618) Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given: Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains; There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But, after, it will thirst no more.

Evening on Calais Beach by William Wordsworth Apr 07, 2008

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Wordsworth read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Evening on Calais Beach by William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850) It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder—everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

from the vault: Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats Apr 05, 2008

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First aired June 28, 2007 Keats read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/ Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' You can find more readings of Keats' poetry at: http://classicpoetryaloud.wordpress.com/category/John-Keats/

Nightingales by Robert Bridges Apr 04, 2008

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Bridges read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Nightingales by Robert Bridges (1844 – 1930) Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins Apr 04, 2008

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Hopkins read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889) Nothing is so beautiful as spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

Upon Some Distemper of Body by Anne Bradstreet Apr 02, 2008

Show notes

Bradstreet read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- Upon Some Distemper of Body by Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672) In anguish of my heart replete with woes, And wasting pains, which best my body knows, In tossing slumbers on my wakeful bed, Bedrenched with tears that flowed from mournful head, Till nature had exhausted all her store, Then eyes lay dry, disabled to weep more; And looking up unto his throne on high, Who sendeth help to those in misery; He chased away those clouds and let me see My anchor cast i' th' vale with safety. He eased my soul of woe, my flesh of pain, and brought me to the shore from troubled main.

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