I Will Read To You

Summer Windby William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)It is a sultry day; the sun has drunkThe dew that lay upon the morning grass;There is no rustling in the lofty elmThat canopies my dwelling, and its shadeScarce cools me. All is silent, save the faintAnd interrupted murmur of the bee,Settling on the sick flowers, and then againInstantly on the wing. The plants aroundFeel the too potent fervors: the tall maizeRolls up its long green leaves; the clover droopsIts tender foliage, and declines its blooms.But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,As if the scorching heat and dazzling lightWere but an element they loved. Bright clouds,Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven—Their bases on the mountains—their white topsShining in the far ether—fire the airWith a reflected radiance, and make turnThe gazer's eye away. For me, I lieLanguidly in the shade, where the thick turf,Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,Retains some freshness, and I woo the windThat still delays his coming. Why so slow,Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earthCoolness and life! Is it that in his cavesHe hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,The pine is bending his proud top, and nowAmong the nearer groves, chestnut and oakAre tossing their green boughs about. He comes;Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!The deep distressful silence of the sceneBreaks up with mingling of unnumbered soundsAnd universal motion. He is come,Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,And bearing on their fragrance; and he bringsMusic of birds, and rustling of young boughs,And sound of swaying branches, and the voiceOf distant waterfalls. All the green herbsAre stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Sonnet VIIIby Luís de Camões (~1524-1580)Mondego! thou, whose waters cold and clear Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay, Fondly to muse on that departed day When Hope was kind and Friendship seem'd sincere; —Ere I had purchas'd knowledge with a tear.—Mondego! though I bend my pilgrim way To other shores, where other fountains stray,And other rivers roll their proud career, Still—nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe, Nor widening distance e'er prevail in aught To make thee less to this sad bosom dear; And Memory oft, by old Affection taught, Shall lightly speed upon the plumes of thought, To bathe amongst thy waters cold and clear! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Reconciliationby Else Lasker-Schüler (1869-1945)A great star will fall into my lap. . .We would hold vigil tonight,Praying in languagesThat are carven like harps.We would be reconciled tonight—So fully God overwhelms us.Our hearts are only children,Eager for weary-sweet slumber.And our lips would kiss each other,Why are you fearful?Does not your heart border upon mine—Your blood always dyes my cheeks red.We would be reconciled tonight,If we clasp each other, we shall not perish.A great star will fall into my lap. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Depths of the Grassby Michael Field (1846-1914 & 1862-1913)Look, in the early light,    Down to the infinite    Depths at the deep grass-roots;       Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through    A dear pool one sees it do;    Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts       Of rising, falling seed   That the winds lightly scour—Down to the matted earth where over    And over again crow's-foot and clover      And pink bindweed      Dimly, steadily flower. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Oh, Sweet Content!by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Heart, We Will Forget Him!by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you're lagging,I may remember him! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Becauseby Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)Oh, because you never triedTo bow my will or break my pride,And nothing of the cave-man madeYou want to keep me half afraid,Nor ever with a conquering airYou thought to draw me unaware,Take me, for I love you moreThan I ever loved before.And since the body's maidenhoodAlone were neither rare nor goodUnless with it I gave to youA spirit still untrammeled, too,Take my dreams and take my mindThat were masterless as wind;And "Master!" I shall say to youSince you never asked me to. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Saying of Il Haboulby Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1915)My tentA vapour thatThe wind dispels and butAs dust before the wind am IMyself. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Ebb Tideby Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)When the long day goes byAnd I do not see your face,The old wild, restless sorrowSteals from its hiding place.My day is barren and broken,Bereft of light and song,A sea beach bleak and windyThat moans the whole day long.To the empty beach at ebb tide,Bare with its rocks and scars,Come back like the sea with singing,And light of a million stars. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Rose Songby Anne Reeve Aldrich (1866-1892)Plant, above my lifeless heart   Crimson roses, red as blood.As if the love, pent there so long   Were pouring forth its flood.Then, through them, my heart may tell,   Its Past of Love and Grief,And I shall feel them grow from it,   And know a vague relief.Through rotting shroud shall feel their roots,   And unto them myself shall grow,And when I blossom at her feet,   She, on that day, shall know! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

When You Are Oldby William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Disputed Treadby Hazel Hall (1886-1924)Where she steps a whir,Like dust about her feet,Follows after herDown the dustless street.Something struggles there:The forces that contendViolently as to whereHer pathway is to end.Issues, like great hands, gripAnd wrestle for her tread;One would strive to trip,And one would go ahead.Conflicting strengths in her Grapple to guide her feet,Raising an unclean whir,Like dust, upon the street. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

River Roadsby Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)Let the crows go by hawking their caw and caw.They have been swimming in midnights of coal mines somewhere.Let 'em hawk their caw and caw.Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a hickory stump. He has been swimming in red and blue pools somewhere hundreds of years And the blue has gone to his wings and the red has gone to his head. Let his red head drum and drum.Let the dark pools hold the birds in a looking-glass. And if the pool wishes, let it shiver to the blur of many wings, old swimmers from old places.Let the redwing streak a line of vermillion on the green wood lines. And the mist along the river fix its purple in lines of a woman's shawl on lazy shoulders. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

By the Seaby Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)Beside an ebbing northern seaWhile stars awaken one by one,We walk together, I and he.He woos me with an easy graceThat proves him only half sincere;A light smile flickers on his face.To him love-making is an art,And as a flutist plays a flute,So does he play upon his heartA music varied to his whim.He has no use for love of mine,He would not have me answer him.To hide my eyes within the nightI watch the changeful lighthouse gleamAlternately with red and white.My laughter smites upon my ears,So one who cries and wakes from sleepKnows not it is himself he hears.What if my voice should let him knowThe mocking words were all a sham,And lips that laugh could tremble so?What if I lost the power to lie,And he should only hear his nameIn one low, broken cry? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Gitanjali 60by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Fireworksby Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)Pink faces—(worlds or flowers or seas or stars),You all alike are patterned with hot barsOf coloured light; and falling where I stand,The sharp and rainbow splinters from the bandSeem fireworks, splinters of the Infinite—(Glitter of leaves the echoes). And the nightWill weld this dust of bright InfinityTo forms that we may touch and call and see:—Pink pyramids of faces: tulip-treesSpilling night perfumes on the terraces.The music, blond airs waving like a seaDraws in its vortex of immensityThe new-awakened flower-strange hair and eyesOf crowds beneath the floating summer skies.And, 'gainst the silk pavilions of the seaI watch the people move incessantlyVibrating, petals blown from flower-hued starsBeneath the music-fireworks' waving bars;So all seems indivisible, at one:The flow of hair, the flowers, the seas that run,—A coloured floating music of the nightThrough the pavilions of the Infinite. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Sheavesby Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)Where long the shadows of the wind had rolled,Green wheat was yielding to the change assigned;And as by some vast magic undivinedThe world was turning slowly into gold.Like nothing that was ever bought or soldIt waited there, the body and the mind;And with a mighty meaning of a kindThat tells the more the more it is not told.So in a land where all days are not fair,Fair days went on till on another dayA thousand golden sheaves were lying there,Shining and still, but not for long to stay—As if a thousand girls with golden hairMight rise from where they slept and go away. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

[I seek for rhythmic whisperings]by Zinaida Gippius (1895-1945)I seek for rhythmic whisperingsWhere noises bandy—For life I listen wistfullyIn footless banter.I cast wide nets and tentativeIn lakes of sorrow.I go toward final tendernessBy pathways sordid.I look for dewdrops glisteringIn falsehood's gardens.I save truth's globules glistening,From dust-heaps garnered.I fain would fathom fortitudeThrough years of wormwood—And pierce the mortal fortalice,Yet live, a worldling.My cup, through ways impassable,To bear, untainted;By tenebrous bleak passagesTo joy attaining. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Road That Has No Endby Joseph Burrows (1953-2009)Hast ever tramped along the road    That has no end?    The far brown winding road, your one    Fast friend    A tattered weather-beaten swag,    A silent mate    To send    His dumb warm comfort to the heart,    A fount where dreams ascend.    There's wondrous freedom on the road    That has no end;    A man's heart glows, his spirit leaps    To blend    Its joy of life with fierce wind's gust    Upon his face:    To lend    Its cry to Nature's tumult, full    And shrill, as twilight shades descend.    The flowers bloom along the road    That has no end    Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway    And bend;    The wild doves woo, and softly coo    Their soothing notes,    And mend    Heart's throbbing pain to sweet content,    And peace lights on the mind's sad trend    There's pain and toil along the road    That has no end;    A sinking heart, and weary feet    That spend    Their strength, and lag and crave respite;    And dim tired eyes    That tend    To close their heavy lids upon    The stinging dusts that upward wend.    There are sweet still hours along the road    That has no end    ‘Neath twinkling stars when night's deep shades    O'erpend;    A man's eyes shine with gathered tears,    And memories come    To rend    His straining heart strings, while above    The paling lights his mood commend.    I love the road, the swagman's road    That has no end;    I love its joys, that pains and toils    Transcend;    It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart    And when death comes and would    My peacefulness    Amend,    I pray that God may let my soul depart    With my tattered swag beside me,    ‘Mid my friends that never chide me,    And my face towards the distant clouded hill,    Where leads the far brown winding road    That has no end. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Men Improve with the Yearsby William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)I am worn out with dreams;A weather-worn, marble tritonAmong the streams;And all day long I lookUpon this lady's beautyAs though I had found in bookA pictured beauty,Pleased to have filled the eyesOr the discerning ears,Delighted to be but wise,For men improve with the years;And yet and yetIs this my dream, or the truth?O would that we had metWhen I had my burning youth;But I grow old among dreams,A weather-worn, marble tritonAmong the streams. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Laugh and Be Merryby John Masefield (1878-1967)Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song,Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span.Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time.God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme,Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine ofHis mirthThe splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky,Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by,Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpouredIn the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin,Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn,Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends.Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Party of Loversby John Keats (1795-1821)    Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,    Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,    Or else forget the purpose of the night,    Forget their tea, forget their appetite.    See with cross'd arms they sit, ah! happy crew,    The fire is going out and no one rings    For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.    A fly is in the milk-pot, must he die    By a humane society?    No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,    Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon    The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,    Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.    Arise! take snuffers by the handle,    There's a large cauliflower in each candle.    A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away    To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.    'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;    Where may your tailor live?'    'I may not tell.    O pardon me, I'm absent now and then.    Where might my tailor live?    I say again    I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd,    He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.' This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Callby John Frederick Freeman (1880-1929) Is it the wind that stirs the trees,    Is it the trees that scratch the wall,    Is it the wall that shakes and mutters,    Is it a dumb ghost's call?    The wind steals in and twirls the candle,    The branches heave and brush the wall,    But more than tree or wild wind mutters    This night, this night of all.    "Open!" a cry sounds, and I gasp.    "Open!" and hands beat door and wall.    "Open!" and each dark echo mutters.    I rise, a shape and shadow tall.    "Open!" Across the room I falter,    And near the door crouch by the wall;    Thrice bolt the door as the voice mutters    "Open!" and frail strokes fall.    "Open!" The light's out, and I shrink    Quaking and blind against the wall;    "Open!" no sound is, yet it mutters    Within me now, this night of all.    Was it the wind that stirred the trees,    Was it the trees that scratched the wall,    Was it the wall that shook and muttered.    Or Love's last, ghostly call? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Answer Julyby Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)Answer July—Where is the Bee—Where is the Blush—Where is the Hay?Ah, said July—Where is the Seed—Where is the Bud—Where is the May—Answer Thee—Me—Nay—said the May—Show me the Snow—Show me the Bells—Show me the Jay!Quibbled the Jay—Where be the Maize—Where be the Haze—Where be the Bur?Here—said the Year— This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

To the Riverby Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)Fair river! in thy bright, clear flowOf crystal, wandering water,Thou art an emblem of the glowOf beauty, the unhidden heart,The playful maziness of artIn old Alberto's daughter;But when within thy wave she looks,Which glistens then, and trembles,Why, then, the prettiest of brooksHer worshiper resembles;For in his heart, as in thy stream,Her image deeply lies,His heart which trembles at the beamOf her soul-searching eyes. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Drinking Songby William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That's all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Fringford Brookby Violet Jacob (1863-1946)The willows stand by Fringford brook,        From Fringford up to Hethe,    Sun on their cloudy silver heads,        And shadow underneath.    They ripple to the silent airs        That stir the lazy day,    Now whitened by their passing hands,        Now turned again to grey.    The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume        Droops tasselled on the stem,    The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame        The grass that harbours them;    Long drowning tresses of the weeds        Trail where the stream is slow,    The vapoured mauves of water-mint        Melt in the pools below;    Serenely soft September sheds        On earth her slumberous look,    The heartbreak of an anguished world        Throbs not by Fringford brook.    All peace is here. Beyond our range,        Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,    The boys that knew these fields of home        By Flemish willows lie.    They waded in the sun-shot flow,        They loitered in the shade,    Who trod the heavy road of death,        Jesting and unafraid.    Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace        Lies at the heart of pain,    For respite, ere the spirit's load        We stoop to lift again.    O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,        Of patient, quenchless will,    Till God shall ease us of your weight        We'll bear you higher still!    O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,        'Tis more than peace you give,    For you, who knew so well to die,        Shall teach us how to live. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Bouquetby Edward Smythe Jones (1881-1968)A blossom pink, a blossom blue,        Make all there is in love so true.    'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,        To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!    Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear        A wreath of beauty in thy hair;    Think on it, when from bliss we part -        The emblem of my wooing heart! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Death, Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnet 10)by John Donne (1571-1631)Death, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrowDie not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee do go,Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as wellAnd better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternally,And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

In the Yellowstoneby Harriet Monroe (1860-1936)Little pin-prick geysers, spitting and sputtering; Little foaming geysers, that spatter and cough; Bubbling geysers, that gurgle out of the calyx of morning glory pools; Laughing geysers, that dance in the sun, and spread their robes like lace over the rocks; Raging geysers, that rush out of hell with a great noise, and blurt out vast dragon-gulps of steam, and, finishing, sink back wearily into darkness; Glad geysers, nymphs of the sun, that rise, slim and nude, out of the hot dark earth, and stand poised in beauty a moment, veiling their brows and breasts in mist; Winged geysers, spirits of fire, that rise tall and straight like a sequoia, and plume the sky with foam: O wild choral fountains, forever singing and seething, forever boiling in deep places and leaping forth for bright moments into the air, How do you like it up here? Why must you go back to the spirits of darkness? What do you tell them down there about your little glorious life in the sun? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

[The sun is lord of life and colour]by Iris Tree (1897-1968)The sun is lord of life and colour,Blood of the rose and hyacinth,Hair of the sea and forests,Crown of the cornfields,Body of the hills.The moon is the harlot of Death,Slaughterer of the sun,Priestess and poisoner she goesWith all her silver flock of wandering souls,Her chant of wailing waters,The bed of shimmering dust from which she comesBound all around with bandages of mist….The living are as blossoms and fruit on the tree,The dead are as lilies and wind on the marshes;The living are as cherries that bow to the morningBeckoning to the loitering stranger,The wind, to sing them his eerie ballads.The dead are as frozen skeleton branchesWhereon the stillness perches like an owl….The dead are as snow on the cherry orchard. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Lincolnby John Gould Fletcher (1886-1950)                                        ILike a gaunt, scraggly pineWhich lifts its head above the mournful sandhills;And patiently, through dull years of bitter silence,Untended and uncared for, starts to grow.Ungainly, labouring, huge,The wind of the north has twisted and gnarled its branches;Yet in the heat of midsummer days, when thunderclouds ring the horizon,A nation of men shall rest beneath its shade.And it shall protect them all,Hold everyone safe there, watching aloof in silence;Until at last one mad stray bolt from the zenithShall strike it in an instant down to earth.                                            IIThere was a darkness in this man; an immense and hollow darkness,Of which we may not speak, nor share with him, nor enter;A darkness through which strong roots stretched downwards into the earthTowards old things:Towards the herdman-kings who walked the earth and spoke with God,Towards the wanderers who sought for they knew not what, and found their goal at last;Towards the men who waited, only waited patiently when all seemed lost,Many bitter winters of defeat;Down to the granite of patienceThese roots swept, knotted fibrous roots, prying, piercing, seeking,And drew from the living rock and the living waters about itThe red sap to carry upwards to the sun.Not proud, but humble,Only to serve and pass on, to endure to the end through service;For the ax is laid at the roots of the trees, and all that bring not forth good fruitShall be cut down on the day to come and cast into the fire.                                           IIIThere is a silence abroad in the land to-day,And in the hearts of men, a deep and anxious silence;And, because we are still at last, those bronze lips slowly open,Those hollow and weary eyes take on a gleam of light.Slowly a patient, firm-syllabled voice cuts through the endless silenceLike labouring oxen that drag a plow through the chaos of rude clay-fields:“I went forward as the light goes forward in early spring,But there were also many things which I left behind.“Tombs that were quiet;One, of a mother, whose brief light went out in the darkness,One, of a loved one, the snow on whose grave is long falling,One, only of a child, but it was mine.“Have you forgot your graves? Go, question them in anguish,Listen long to their unstirred lips. From your hostages to silence,Learn there is no life without death, no dawn without sun-setting,No victory but to him who has given all.”                                           IVThe clamour of cannon dies down, the furnace-mouth of the battle is silent.The midwinter sun dips and descends, the earth takes on afresh its bright colours.But he whom we mocked and obeyed not, he whom we scorned and mistrusted,He has descended, like a god, to his rest.Over the uproar of cities,Over the million intricate threads of life wavering and crossing,In the midst of problems we know not, tangling, perplexing, ensnaring,Rises one white tomb alone.Beam over it, stars,Wrap it round, stripes—stripes red for the pain that he bore for you—Enfold it forever, O flag, rent, soiled, but repaired through your anguish;Long as you keep him there safe, the nations shall bow to your law.Strew over him flowers:Blue forget-me-nots from the north, and the bright pink arbutusFrom the east, and from the west rich orange blossom,And from the heart of the land take the passion-flower;Rayed, violet, dim,With the nails that pierced, the cross that he bore and the circlet,And beside it there lay also one lonely snow-white magnolia,Bitter for remembrance of the healing which has passed. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Dorothy Dancesby Louis Untermeyer (1885-1977)This is no child that dances. This is flame.Here fire at last has found its natural frame.What else is that which burns and fliesFrom those enkindled eyes...What is that inner blazeWhich playsAbout that lighted face?...This thing is fire set free—Fire possesses her, or rather sheControls its mastery.With every gesture, every rhythmic stride,Beat after beat,It follows, purring at her side,Or licks the shadows of her flashing feet.Around her everywhereIt coils its thread of yellow hair.Through every vein its bright blood creeps,And its red handsCaress her as she standsOr lift her boldly when she leaps.Then, as the surgeOf radiance grows strongerThese two are two no longerAnd they mergeInto a disembodied ecstasy;FreeTo express some half-forgotten hunger,Some half-forbidden urge.What mysteryHas been at work until it blentOne child and that fierce element?Give it no name.It is enough that flesh has danced with flame. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Shropshire Lad, XXXby Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936)Others, I am not the first,Have willed more mischief than they durst:If in the breathless night I tooShiver now, 'tis nothing new.More than I, if truth were told,Have stood and sweated hot and cold,And through their reins in ice and fireFear contended with desire.Agued once like me were they,But I like them shall win my wayLastly to the bed of mouldWhere there's neither heat nor cold.But from my grave across my browPlays no wind of healing now,And fire and ice within me fightBeneath the suffocating night. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Emancipationby Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)Fling out your banners, your honors be bringing,Raise to the ether your paeans of praise.Strike every chord and let music be ringing!Celebrate freely this day of all days.Few are the years since that notable blessing,Raised you from slaves to the powers of men.Each year has seen you my brothers progressing,Never to sink to that level again.Perched on your shoulders sits Liberty smiling,Perched where the eyes of the nations can see.Keep from her pinions all contact defiling;Show by your deeds what you're destined to be.Press boldly forward nor waver, nor falter.Blood has been freely poured out in your cause,Lives sacrificed upon Liberty's altar.Press to the front, it were craven to pause.Look to the heights that are worth your attainingKeep your feet firm in the path to the goal.Toward noble deeds every effort be straining.Worthy ambition is food for the soul!Up! Men and brothers, be noble, be earnest!Ripe is the time and success is assured;Know that your fate was the hardest and sternestWhen through those lash-ringing days you endured.Never again shall the manacles gall youNever again shall the whip stroke defame!Nobles and Freemen, your destinies call youOnward to honor, to glory and fame. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Decadeby Amy Lowell (1874-1925)When you came, you were like red wine and honey,And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.Now you are like morning bread,Smooth and pleasant.I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,But I am completely nourished. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Of a Certain Friendshipby Elsa Gidlow (1898-1986)Odd how you entered my house quietly,Quietly left again.While you stayed you ate at my table,Slept in my bed.There was much sweetness,Yet little was done, little said.After you left there was pain,Now there is no more pain.But the door of a certain room in my houseWill be always shut.Your fork, your plate, the glass you drank from,The music you played,Are in that roomWith the pillow where last your head was laid.And there is one place in my gardenWhere it's best that I set no foot. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Ahead and Aroundby Laura Riding Jackson (1901-1991)Ahead and AroundMet, quarreled, quilled the bird of peace,Untidied a pleasant plane.Ahead accused Around of complete deceit,Around accused Ahead of being discontented.Neither listened to each.Either lined on,Making round straight and straight round,Permitting nothing in-between,Licked space clean,Fattened unhappily and flewAlong the geometrical faith of two-and-two,Hated apart; and far and farEach wandererHoped toward a spiritually reconnoitered heaven.“For,” cried sinuous Around,“More and less than I, am I,Nature of all things, all things the nature of me.”Ahead echoed the cry.Sped toward its own eternityOf the sweet end before the bitter beyond, beyond.And both were brave and both were strong,And the ways of both were like and long,And adventured freely in fettered song:One that circled as it sang,One that longitudinally rang.The spite prospered. The spite stopped.Both earned the same end differently,Prided along two different paths,Reached the same humilityOf an old-trodden start.Birth is the beginning where all part.Death is the beginning where they meet. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Voyages Vby Hart Crane (1899-1932)Meticulous, past midnight in clear rime,   Infrangible and lonely, smooth as though cast   Together in one merciless white blade—The bay estuaries fleck the hard sky limits.—As if too brittle or too clear to touch!   The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed,Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars.   One frozen trackless smile... What words   Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For weAre overtaken. Now no cry, no sword   Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge,Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved   And changed... “There'sNothing like this in the world,” you say,   Knowing I cannot touch your hand and look   Too, into that godless cleft of skyWhere nothing turns but dead sands flashing.“—And never to quite understand!” No,In all the argosy of your bright hair I dreamed   Nothing so flagless as this piracy.                                               But nowDraw in your head, alone and too tall here.   Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam;   Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know:   Draw in your head and sleep the long way home. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Gift of Indiaby Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)Is there aught you need that my hands withhold,Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold?Lo! I have flung to the East and WestPriceless treasures torn from my breast,And yielded the sons of my stricken wombTo the drum-beats of duty, the sabres of doom.Gathered like pearls in their alien gravesSilent they sleep by the Persian waves,Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands,They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands,They are strewn like blossoms mown down by chanceOn the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France.Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weepOr compass the woe of the watch I keep?Or the pride that thrills thro' my heart's despairAnd the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer?And the far sad glorious vision I seeOf the torn red banners of Victory?When the terror and tumult of hate shall ceaseAnd life be refashioned on anvils of peace,And your love shall offer memorial thanksTo the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,And you honour the deeds of the deathless onesRemember the blood of thy martyred sons! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

To the Memory of Mary Youngby Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)    God has his plans, and what if we    With our sight be too blind to see    Their full fruition; cannot he,    Who made it, solve the mystery?    One whom we loved has fall'n asleep,    Not died; although her calm be deep,    Some new, unknown, and strange surprise    In Heaven holds enrapt her eyes.    And can you blame her that her gaze    Is turned away from earthly ways,    When to her eyes God's light and love    Have giv'n the view of things above?    A gentle spirit sweetly good,    The pearl of precious womanhood;    Who heard the voice of duty clear,    And found her mission soon and near.    She loved all nature, flowers fair,    The warmth of sun, the kiss of air,    The birds that filled the sky with song,    The stream that laughed its way along.    Her home to her was shrine and throne,    But one love held her not alone;    She sought out poverty and grief,    Who touched her robe and found relief.    So sped she in her Master's work,    Too busy and too brave to shirk,    When through the silence, dusk and dim,    God called her and she fled to him.    We wonder at the early call,    And tears of sorrow can but fall    For her o'er whom we spread the pall;    But faith, sweet faith, is over all.    The house is dust, the voice is dumb,    But through undying years to come,    The spark that glowed within her soul    Shall light our footsteps to the goal.    She went her way; but oh, she trod    The path that led her straight to God.    Such lives as this put death to scorn;    They lose our day to find God's morn. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Fly and the Antby Jean de La Fontaine (1621-1695) A fly and ant, upon a sunny bank,     Discuss'd the question of their rank.     'O Jupiter!' the former said,     'Can love of self so turn the head,     That one so mean and crawling,     And of so low a calling,     To boast equality shall dare     With me, the daughter of the air?     In palaces I am a guest,     And even at thy glorious feast.     Whene'er the people that adore thee     May immolate for thee a bullock,     I'm sure to taste the meat before thee.     Meanwhile this starveling, in her hillock,     Is living on some bit of straw     Which she has labour'd home to draw.     But tell me now, my little thing,     Do you camp ever on a king,     An emperor, or lady?     I do, and have full many a play-day     On fairest bosom of the fair,     And sport myself upon her hair.     Come now, my hearty, rack your brain     To make a case about your grain.'     'Well, have you done?' replied the ant.     'You enter palaces, I grant,     And for it get right soundly cursed.     Of sacrifices, rich and fat,     Your taste, quite likely, is the first; -     Are they the better off for that?     You enter with the holy train;     So enters many a wretch profane.     On heads of kings and asses you may squat;     Deny your vaunting I will not;     But well such impudence, I know,     Provokes a sometimes fatal blow.     The name in which your vanity delights     Is own'd as well by parasites,     And spies that die by ropes - as you soon will     By famine or by ague-chill,     When Phoebus goes to cheer     The other hemisphere, -     The very time to me most dear.     Not forced abroad to go     Through wind, and rain, and snow,     My summer's work I then enjoy,     And happily my mind employ,     From care by care exempted.     By which this truth I leave to you,     That by two sorts of glory we are tempted,     The false one and the true.     Work waits, time flies; adieu: -     This gabble does not fill     My granary or till.' This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Nocturneby Sadakichi Hartmann (1867-1944)Upon the silent sea-swept land     The dreams of night fall soft and gray,          The waves fade on the jeweled sand               Like some lost hope of yesterday.The dreams of night fall soft and gray     Upon the summer-colored seas,          Like some lost hope of yesterday,               The sea-mew's song is on the breeze.Upon the summer-colored seas     Sails gleam and glimmer ghostly white,          The sea-mew's song is on the breeze               Lost in the monotone of night.Sails gleam and glimmer ghostly white,     They come and slowly drift away,          Lost in the monotone of night,               Like visions of a summer-day.They shift and slowly drift away     Like lovers' lays that wax and wane,          The visions of a summer-day               Whose dreams we ne'er will dream again.Like lovers' lays wax and wane     The star dawn shifts from sail to sail,          Like dreams we ne'er will dream again;               The sea-mews follow on their trail.The star dawn shifts from sail to sail,     As they drift to the dim unknown,          The sea-mews follow on their trail               In quest of some dreamland zone.In quest of some far dreamland zone,     Of some far silent sea-swept land,          They are lost in the dim unknown,               Where waves fade on jeweled sand                    And dreams of night fall soft and gray,                         Like some lost hope of yesterday. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

I Was Looking a Long Whileby Walt Whitman (1819-1892)I was looking a long while for a clue to the history of the past for myself, and for these chants - and now I have found it;It is not in those paged fables in the libraries, (them I neither accept nor reject;)It is no more in the legends than in all else;It is in the present - it is this earth to-day;It is in Democracy - (the purport and aim of all the past;)It is the life of one man or one woman to-day - the average man of to-day;It is in languages, social customs, literatures, arts;It is in the broad show of artificial things, ships, machinery, politics, creeds, modern improvements, and the interchange of nations,All for the average man of to-day. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

We never know how high we are (1176)by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)We never know how high we are  Till we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,  Our statures touch the skies—The Heroism we recite  Would be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the Cubits warp  For fear to be a King— This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Chicagoby Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)        Hog Butcher for the World,        Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat,        Player with Railroads and the Nation's             Freight Handler;        Stormy, husky, brawling,        City of the Big Shoulders:They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,            Bareheaded,            Shoveling,            Wrecking,            Planning,            Building, breaking, rebuilding,Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,            Laughing!Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

My Shadowby Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

A Jelly-Fishby Marianne Moore (1887-1972)Visible, invisible,A fluctuating charm,An amber-colored amethystInhabits it; your armApproaches, andIt opens andIt closes;You have meantTo catch it,And it shrivels;You abandonYour intent—It opens, and itCloses and youReach for it—The blueSurrounding itGrows cloudy, andIt floats awayFrom you. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

The Moonlightby Yvor Winters (1900-1968)I waited onIn the late autumn moonlight,A train droning out of thought—The mind on moonlightAnd on trains.Blind as a thread of waterStirring through a cold like dust,Lonely beyond all silenceAnd humming this to children,The nostalgic listeners in sleep,Because no guardianStrides through distance upon distance,His eyes a web of sleep. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

Gone with the Swallowsby Ameen Rihani (1876-1940)Must I convey at last the news to thee?Must I now mourn the love that lived in me?   Gone with the autumn, with the dying year.   Gone with the kisses that are yet so near!Gone with the swallows somewhere o'er the sea!But with the Spring will he againReturn, will he with me remain?       Must I till then, remembering naught,       Forgetting all that love had brought,   Grope in the shadows of the slain?           Must I forget the day           That took my love away,               And all the happy hours               That reared for him their towers               And crowned him with the flowers           Of all the queens of May?           Must I alone           My once my own,              In my retreat              The new year greet,              And winter meet,           And winds hear moan?                Not yet                   Can I                Forget;                   But why                       One clings                       And sings                       To things                   That die? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe

[since feeling is first]by E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)since feeling is firstwho pays any attention to the syntax of thingswill never wholly kiss you;wholly to be a foolwhile Spring is in the worldmy blood approves,and kisses are a better fate than wisdomlady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry—the best gesture of my brain is less thanyour eyelids' flutter which sayswe are for each other: thenlaugh, leaning back in my armsfor life's not a paragraphAnd death i think is no parenthesis This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit iwillreadtoyou.substack.com/subscribe