The Clod and the Pebble

Listen to:

The Clod and the Pebble (:45)

by William Blake

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a Pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

The Song of Wandering Aengus

Listen to:

The Song of Wandering Aengus (1:19)

by William Butler Yeats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor, 

And someone called me by my name: 

It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran 

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering 

Through hollow lands and hilly lands, 

I will find out where she has gone, 

And kiss her lips and take her hands; 

And walk among long dappled grass, 

And pluck till time and times are done, 

The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

The Lighted Window

Listen to:

The Lighted Window (1:21)

by Sara Teasdale 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

He said:
“In the winter dusk
When the pavements were gleaming with rain,
I walked thru a dingy street
Hurried, harassed,
Thinking of all my problems that never are solved.
Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet
Shone from a huddled shop.
I saw thru the bleary window
A mass of playthings:
False-faces hung on strings,
Valentines, paper and tinsel,
Tops of scarlet and green,
Candy, marbles, jacks—
A confusion of color
Pathetically gaudy and cheap.
All of my boyhood
Rushed back.
Once more these things were treasures
Wildly desired.
With covetous eyes I looked again at the marbles,
The precious agates, the pee-wees, the chinies—
Then I passed on.

In the winter dusk,
The pavements were gleaming with rain;
There in the lighted window
I left my boyhood.”

Nocturne

Listen to:

Nocturne  (:46)

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Up to her chamber window

A slight wire trellis goes,

And up this Romeo's ladder

Clambers a bold white rose.

I lounge in the ilex shadows,

I see the lady lean,

Unclasping her silken girdle,

The curtain's folds between.

She smiles on her white-rose lover,

She reaches out her hand

And helps him in at the window—

I see it where I stand!

To her scarlet lip she holds him,

And kisses him many a time—

Ah, me! it was he that won her

Because he dared to climb!

January

Listen to:

January (:34)

by William Carlos Williams 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
                                          Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
                                           And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.

A Thrush in the Moonlight

Listen to:

A Thrush in the Moonlight (:53)

by Witter Bynner

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

In came the moon and covered me with wonder,
Touched me and was near me and made me very still.
In came a rush of song, like rain after thunder,
Pouring importunate on my window-sill.

I lowered my head, I hid it, I would not see nor hear,
The birdsong had stricken me, had brought the moon too near.
But when I dared to lift my head, night began to fill
With singing in the darkness. And then the thrush grew still.
  And the moon came in, and silence, on my window-sill.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 4 (3:13)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A few short hours, and he will rise

   To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

   But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

   Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

   My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page:

   Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

   Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,

   Our ship is swift and strong;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

   More merrily along.'

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

   I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

   Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone, 

   A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

   But thee--and One above.

'My father blessed me fervently,

   Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

   Till I come back again.' -

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

   Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

   Mine own would not be dry.

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

   Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman,

   Or shiver at the gale?' -

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

   Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

   Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

   Along the bordering lake;

And when they on their father call,

   What answer shall she make?' -

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

   Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

   Will laugh to flee away.'

For who would trust the seeming sighs

   Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes

   We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

   Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

   No thing that claims a tear.  

And now I'm in the world alone,

   Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

   When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain

   Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

   He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

   Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

   So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

   And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

   My Native Land--Good Night!

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 3 (1:59)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

XI.

   His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

   The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

   Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,

   Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

   And long had fed his youthful appetite;

   His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,

   And all that mote to luxury invite,     may, might

   Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.    

XII.

   The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew

   As glad to waft him from his native home;

   And fast the white rocks faded from his view,

   And soon were lost in circumambient foam;

   And then, it may be, of his wish to roam

   Repented he, but in his bosom slept

   The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

   One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.

   But when the sun was sinking in the sea,

   He seized his harp, which he at times could string,

   And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

   When deemed he no strange ear was listening:

   And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

   And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,

   While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,

   And fleeting shores receded from his sight,

Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

   Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

   And shrieks the wild sea-mew.      

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

   We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

   My Native Land--Good Night!  

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 2 (2:46)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

VI.

   And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

   And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

   'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

   But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:

   Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,

   And from his native land resolved to go,

   And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

   With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.

   The Childe departed from his father's hall;

   It was a vast and venerable pile;

   So old, it seemed only not to fall,

   Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.

   Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

   Where superstition once had made her den,

   Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

   And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.

   Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,

   Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

   As if the memory of some deadly feud

   Or disappointed passion lurked below:

   But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

   For his was not that open, artless soul

   That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;

   Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

IX.

   And none did love him:  though to hall and bower

   He gathered revellers from far and near,

   He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;

   The heartless parasites of present cheer.

   Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear -  

   But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

   And where these are light Eros finds a feere;    

   Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

X.

   Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,

   Though parting from that mother he did shun;

   A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

   Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

   If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

   Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;

   Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

   A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1

Listen to:

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto I Part 1 (2:48)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I.

   Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
   Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
   Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
   Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
   Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
   Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
   Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
   Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine.

II.

   Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
   Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
   But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
   And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
   Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
   Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
   Few earthly things found favour in his sight
   Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III.

   Childe Harold was he hight: --but whence his name
   And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
   Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
   And had been glorious in another day:
   But one sad losel soils a name for aye,  
   However mighty in the olden time;
   Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
   Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.


IV.

   Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
   Disporting there like any other fly,
   Nor deemed before his little day was done  
   One blast might chill him into misery.
   But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
   Worse than adversity the Childe befell;    
   He felt the fulness of satiety:
   Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

V.

   For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
   Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
   Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
   And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
   Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
   Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
   Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
   And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

The Road Not Taken

Listen to:

The Road Not Taken (1:07)

by Robert Frost

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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