Richard Cory

Listen to:

Richard Cory (1:00)

by Edward Arlington Robinson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Whenever Richard Cory went down town, 

We people on the pavement looked at him: 

He was a gentleman from sole to crown, 

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, — yes, richer than a king, — 

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything 

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; 

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Come Lovely and Soothing Death

Listen to:

 Come Lovely and Soothing Death (1:26)

by Walt Whitman 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d"

from Leaves of Grass

by Walt Whitman

Come lovely and soothing death,

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,

In the day, in the night, to all, to each,

Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais'd be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,

And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach strong deliveress,

When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,

Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,

Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

A Light Exists in Spring

Listen to:

A Light Exists in Spring (:57)

by Emily Dickinson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A light exists in spring

  Not present on the year

At any other period.

  When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad

  On solitary hills

That silence cannot overtake,

  But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn;

  It shows the furthest tree

Upon the furthest slope we know;

  It almost speaks to me.

  

Then, as horizons step,

  Or noons report away,

Without the formula of sound,

  It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss

  Affecting our content,

As trade had suddenly encroached

  Upon a sacrament.

      

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

Listen to:

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls (1:06)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  The tide rises, the tide falls,

  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

  Along the sea-sands damp and brown

  The traveller hastens toward the town,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

  But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;

  The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

  Efface the footprints in the sands,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

  The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

  Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

  The day returns, but nevermore

  Returns the traveller to the shore,

    And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Lines Written in Early Spring

Listen to:

Lines Written in Early Spring (1:17)

by William Wordsworth 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

Excelsior

Listen to:

Excelsior (2:20)

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The shades of night were falling fast,  

As through an Alpine village passed  

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,  

A banner with the strange device,  

        Excelsior!          

  

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,  

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,  

And like a silver clarion rung  

The accents of that unknown tongue,  

        Excelsior!  

  

In happy homes he saw the light  

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;  

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,  

And from his lips escaped a groan,  

        Excelsior!  

  

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;  

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,  

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"  

And loud that clarion voice replied,  

        Excelsior!  

  

"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest  

Thy weary head upon this breast!"  

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,  

But still he answered, with a sigh,  

        Excelsior!  

  

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!  

Beware the awful avalanche!"  

This was the peasant's last Good-night,  

A voice replied, far up the height,  

        Excelsior!  

  

At break of day, as heavenward  

The pious monks of Saint Bernard  

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,  

A voice cried through the startled air,  

        Excelsior!  

  

A traveller, by the faithful hound,  

Half-buried in the snow was found,  

Still grasping in his hand of ice  

That banner with the strange device,  

        Excelsior!  

  

There, in the twilight cold and gray,  

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,  

And from the sky, serene and far,  

A voice fell, like a falling star,  

        Excelsior!  

Now I Will Do Nothing But Listen

Image by Michal_LUKASIEWICZ
http://kooookooookooookoooo.deviantart.com/art/A41-180217457

Listen to:

Now I Will Do Nothing But Listen (3:01)

by Walt Whitman 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Song of Myself

 26

Now I will do nothing but listen,

To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,

    clack of sticks cooking my meals,

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,

I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,

Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,

Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of

    work-people at their meals,

The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,

The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing

    a death-sentence,

The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the

    refrain of the anchor-lifters,

The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking

    engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights,

The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,

The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two,

(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)

I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)

I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,

It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,

Ah this indeed is music--this suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,

The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,

It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,

It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves,

I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,

Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,

At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,

And that we call Being.

Six Honest Serving Men

Listen to:

Six Honest Serving Men (1:03)

by Rudyard Kipling 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I keep six honest serving-men

 (They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When 

 And How and Where and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

 I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

 I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five,

 For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,

 For they are hungry men.

But different folk have different views; 

I know a person small—

She keeps ten million serving-men,

Who get no rest at all!

She sends 'em abroad on her own affairs,

 From the second she opens her eyes—

One million Hows, two million Wheres,

And seven million Whys!

from Kipling's Just-So Story,

The Elephant's Child 

To Hope

Listen to:

To Hope (1:14)

by Charlotte Smith 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
    How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose,
    And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?
Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,
    Like the young hours that lead the tender year,
Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest:—
    Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!
A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,
    Must I a sad existence still deplore?
Lo!—the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,
    “For me the vernal garland blooms no more.”
Come then, “pale Misery’s love!” be thou my cure,
And I will bless thee, who, tho’ slow, art sure.

I Believe a Leaf of Grass

Listen to:

I Believe a Leaf of Grass (:45)

by Walt Whitman 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Song of Myself     

31

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars,

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg

    of the wren,

And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.


* chef-d'oeuvre - a masterpiece, especially in art or literature

The Brain is Wider Than the Sky

Listen to:

The Brain is Wider Than the Sky (:38)

by Emily Dickinson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The brain is wider than the sky,

  For, put them side by side,

The one the other will include

  With ease, and you beside.


The brain is deeper than the sea,
     
  For, hold them, blue to blue,

The one the other will absorb,

  As sponges, buckets do.


The brain is just the weight of God,

  For, lift them, pound for pound,
     
And they will differ, if they do,

  As syllable from sound.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Listen to:

Ring Out, Wild Bells (1:46)

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

In Drear-Nighted December

Listen to:

In Drear-Nighted December (:59)

by John Keats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

In drear nighted December,
   Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
   Their green felicity—
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them
Nor frozen thawings glue them
   From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne’er remember
   Apollo’s summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
   About the frozen time.

Ah! would ‘twere so with many
   A gentle girl and boy—
But were there ever any
   Writh’d not of passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
   Was never said in rhyme.

To Anyone

Listen to:

To Anyone (:26)

by Witter Bynner

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Whether the time be slow or fast,
  Enemies, hand in hand,
Must come together at the last
  And understand.
 
No matter how the die is cast      
  Nor who may seem to win,
You know that you must love at last—
  Why not begin?

Death Be Not Proud

Listen to:

Death Be Not Proud (1:17)

by John Donne

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die 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 well,
And 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.

Sonnet 23: Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint

Listen to:

Sonnet 23: Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint (1:02)

by John Milton

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Methought I saw my late espoused saint
       Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
       Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
       Rescu'd from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint
       Purification in the old Law did save,
       And such as yet once more I trust to have
       Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind;
       Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight
       Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear as in no face with more delight.
       But Oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd,
       I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

The Flea

Listen to:

The Flea (1:48)

by John Donne

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Mark but this flea, and mark    in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is ;

It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, 

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.

Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;

    Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;

    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, yea, more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.

Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,

And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.

    Though use make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that self-murder added be,

    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou

Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.

'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;

Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

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A Fish Answers

Listen to:

A Fish Answers (1:07)

by Leigh Hunt

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,

With the first sight of thee didst make our race

For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,

Grimly divided from the breast below!

Thou that on dry land horribly dost go

With a split body and most ridiculous pace,

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,

Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow!

O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,

How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry

And dreary sloth? What particle canst share

Of the only blessed life, the watery?

I sometimes see of ye an actual pair

Go by! linked fin by fin! most odiously.

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One Day I Wrote Her Name

Listen to:

Sonnet 75 (1:03)

by Edmund Spenser

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washéd it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize!
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wipéd out likewise.
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name;
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.

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Yea, I Have a Goodly Heritage

Listen to:

Yea, I Have a Goodly Heritage (1:02)

by Christina Rossetti

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

MY vineyard that is mine I have to keep,
  Pruning for fruit the pleasant twigs and leaves.
Tend thou thy cornfield: one day thou shalt reap
  In joy thy ripened sheaves.

Or if thine be an orchard, graft and prop        5
  Food-bearing trees each watered in its place:
Or if a garden, let it yield for crop
  Sweet herbs and herb of grace.—

But if my lot be sand where nothing grows?—
  Nay, who hath said it? Tune a thankful psalm:        10
For tho’ thy desert bloom not as the rose,
  It yet can rear thy palm.