Whitman Poem Reading [Female, English]
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
when lilacs last in the door yard bloomed, and the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever returning spring. Oh, ever returning spring trinity shirt to me. You bring lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, and thought of him. I love o powerful western fallen star. Oh, shades of night. O moody, tearful night. O great star disappeared. Oh! The black mark that hides the stars, O cruel hands that hold me powerless! Oh, helpless soul of me! A harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. In the door yard, fronting an old farmhouse near the whitewashed failings, stands the lilac bush, tall growing with heart shaped leaves of rich green, with many a pointed blossom rising delicate with the perfume strong. I love with every leaf a miracle, and from this bush in the door yard with delicate colored blossoms and heart shaped leaves of rich green, a sprig with its flower. I break in the swamp in secluded recesses. A shy and hidden bird is warbling. A song solitary, the thrush, the hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, sings by himself a song song of the pleading throat, deaths outlet song of life for well, dear brother! I know if that was not gifted to sing that would surely die over the breast of the spring, the land amid cities amid lanes through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray debris amid the grass in the fields, each side of the lanes passing the endless grass passing the yellow speared wheat. Every grain from its shroud in the dark brown fields uprising, passing the apple tree blows of white and pink in the orchards carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, night and day journeys a coffin coffin that passes through lanes and streets through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land. With the pump of the inter looped flags and the city's draped in black with the show of the states themselves, as of crepe veiled women standing with processions long and winding and the flambeau of the night, with the countless torches lit with the silent sea of faces on the unbearable. Heads with the waiting depot, the arriving coffin and the somber faces with dirges through the night, with 1000 voices rising, strong and solemn with all the mournful voices of the dirges poured round the coffin, the dim lit churches and the shuttering organs were amid these. You journey with the tolling tolling bells perpetual clang here coffin that slowly passes. I give you my sprig of lilac, Nor for you! For one alone Blossoms and branches Green, two coffins all I bring for fresh as the morning. Thus would I carol a song for you. Oh, sane and sacred. Death all over bouquets of roses! Oh, death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies, but mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first copious I'd break I break the sprigs from the bushes with loaded arms, I come pouring for you for you! And the coffins! All of you! Oh! Death a western orb Sailing the heaven. Now! I know what you must have meant as a month since we walked as we walked up and down in the dark blue, So mystic! As we walked in silence, the transparent shadowy night as I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night as you drooped from the sky, low down, as if to my side, while the other stars all looked on as we wandered together the solemn night for something. I know not what kept me from sleep. As the night advanced. I saw on the rim of the west where you went, how full you were of woe! As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cold, transparent night as I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherworld black of the night as my soul in its trouble. Dissatisfied, sank as where you sat orb concluded, dropped in the night and was gone! Sing on there in the swamp. A singer bashful and tender. I hear your notes. I hear your call. I hear I come presently. I understand you but a moment. I linger for the lustrous star has detained me. The star. My departing comrade holds and detains me. Oh! How shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved. And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone! And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him? I love see winds blown from east and west blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the western sea until they're on the prairies meeting these and with these and the breath of my chant. I perfume the grave of him, I love, Oh! What shall I hang on the chamber walls, and what shall the picture be that I hang on the walls to adorn the burial house of him? I love pictures of growing spring and farms and homes with the fourth Month Eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright with floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent sinking sun burning, expanding the air with the fresh, sweet er bage underfoot and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific in the distance, the flowing glaze the breast of the river with the wind Dapple here and there, with the ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky and shadows, and the city at hand, with dwelling so dense and stacks of chimneys and all the scenes of life and the workshops and the work wind homeward, returning low body and soul. This land, low body and soul, this land mighty Manhattan with spires, the sparkling and hurrying tides and the ships. The varied and ample land, the south and the north and the light, Ohio shore's and the flashing Missouri and ever. The far spreading prairies covered with grass and corn, lo the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty, the violet and purple morn with just felt breezes, the gentle, soft born, measureless light, the miracle spreading, bathing all the fulfilled noon. The coming eve delicious the welcome night and the stars over my city's shining all enveloping man and land. Hang on, sing on, you gray brown bird! Sing from the swamps! The recesses pour your chant from the bushes limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines, Sing One dearest brother Warble! You're ready! Song loud! Human song with the voice of utmost, whoa! Oh, liquid and free and tender. A wild and loose my soul. A wondrous singer! You only I hear yet the star holds me, but will soon depart. Yet the lilac with mastering oder holds me now while I sat in the day and looked forth in the close of the day, with its light in the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops in the large, unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests in the heavenly aerial beauty, after the perturbed winds and the storms under the arching heavens, of the afternoon, swift passing, and the voices of Children and women, the many moving sea tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed, and the summer approaching with richness and the fields all busy with labor and the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usage. Is, and the streets, how they're throbbing, throbbed and the city's pent lo then and there falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest appeared the cloud appeared the long black trail. I knew death. It's thought, and the sacred knowledge of Death then with the knowledge of Death is walking one side of me and the thought of death close walking the other side of me and I in the middle as with companions and is holding the hands of companions. I fled forth to the hiding, receiving night that talks not down to the shore's of the water. The path by the swamp, in the dimness to the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. And the singers so shy to the rest received me. The gray brown bird I know received dust comrades three and he sang. What seemed the carol of death and divers for him. I love from deep secluded recesses from the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pine. So still came the carol of the bird, and the charm of the carol wrapped me as I held as if by their hands. My comrades in the night, and the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. Death carol come lovely and soothing. Death undulate around the world, serenely arriving arriving in the day in the night to all to each sooner or later delicate death praised 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 and winding arms of cool and folding death. Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, have none chanted for the a chant of fullest welcome. Then I chanted for the I glorify the above all. I bring the a song that when thou must indeed come come, unfaltering lee approach, strong deliveries when it is so, when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing! The dead, lost in the loving floating ocean of the laver, in the flood of thy bliss! Oh! Death! From me to the glad serenades, dances for the I propose saluting the adornments and feast ing's for the and the sites of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting and life and the fields and the huge and thoughtful night. The night and silence under many a star the ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know and the soul turning to the a vast and well veiled death, and the body gratefully nestling close to the over the tree tops. I float the song over the rising and sinking waves over the myriad fields and the prairies, wide over the dense packed cities all and the teeming dwarves in ways. I float this carol with joy with joy to thee. O death to the tally of my soul loud and strong, kept up the gray brown bird with pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night loud in the pines and cedars, dim clear in the freshness, moist in the swamp perfume and I with my comrades there in the night. While my site that was bound in my eyes, enclosed as a long panoramas of visions, I saw a scant the armies and I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle flags born through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles. I saw them and carried hither and yawn through the smoke and torn and bloody and at last but a few shreds left the staffs and all in silence. And the staff is all splintered and broken. I saw battle corpses, my rates of them and the white skeletons of young men. I saw them. I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war. But I saw they were not as was thought they themselves were fully at rest. They suffered not. The living remained and suffered. The mother suffered and the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered and the armies that remained suffered, mm hmm, passing the visions passing the night, passing unlu zing the hold of my comrades hands, passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul victoria's song deaths, outlet. Song get varying ever altering song as low and wailing yet clear. The notes rising and falling, flooding the night, sadly sinking and fainting as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven as that powerful psalm. In the night I heard from recesses passing, I leave the lilac with heart shaped leaves. I leave the there in the door yard blooming, returning with spring. I cease from my song. For the, for my gaze on the, in the west fronting the west communing with the oh comrade, lustrous with silver face in the night. Yet each I keep and all retrieve mints out of the night. The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird and the tallying chant. The echo aroused in my soul with the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe when the lilac tall and its blossoms of mastering odor, with the holders holding my hand nearing, the call of the bird comrades mine and I in the midst and their memory ever I keep for the dead. I loved so well for the sweetest wisest soul of all my days and lands and this for his dear sake, lilac and star, and a bird twined with the chant of my soul. They're in the fragrant pines and the cedars, dusk and dim