The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson read by Various | Full Audio Book

[00:00:00]The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson read for librivox.org by Alan Lawley.

[00:00:12]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes.

[00:00:24]Her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:00:29]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long, and when she smiles her forehead shows a wrinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:00:47]Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:01:05]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated. To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her as heretofore of what they know, of roses that are still to blow, byways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:01:58]They stay for a while and having done what penance all the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:02:13]Her lip shakes when they go away and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity having played soon tires.

[00:02:29]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken, whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes while she wears and men's the poor relations' odds and ends.

[00:02:55]Her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken, poor laugh more slender than her song, it seems and there are none >> [clears throat] >> to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit. The friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:03:38]None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure. The plover with a wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure.

[00:03:54]So there she waits and while she lives and death forgets and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure and like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending.

[00:04:28]The city trembles, throbs and pounds outside and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying unsought, unthought of and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:05:28]>> The poor relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson, read for librivox.org by Bruce Kachuk.

[00:05:38]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others. Her doubts are when the daylight goes. Her fears are for the few she bothers. She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long. And when she smiles her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's. Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:06:14]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated. To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings for they are all she has. And she may smile when they remind her, as heretofore, of what they know of roses that are still to blow. By ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her. They stay a while and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires. But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken, whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes while she wears and mends the poor relation's odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken. Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong. For breaking heart or broken spirit, the friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it. None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure. The plover with a wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure. So there she waits, and while she lives and death forgets and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:08:37]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending, the city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending. Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing, with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying, unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:09:30]End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

[00:09:40]>> The poor relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson, read for librivox.org by Bryce Crise, Ohio.

[00:09:50]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:10:01]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long, and when she smiles her forehead shows the crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:10:12]Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again the question many times repeated.

[00:10:23]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:10:34]For those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her.

[00:10:45]And heretofore of what they know of roses that are still to blow by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:10:57]They stay a while, and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:11:08]Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay.

[00:11:13]She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:11:19]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken, whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes, while she wears and mends the poor relations odds and ends. Her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken, poor laugh, more slander than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit.

[00:11:53]The friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:12:04]None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:12:10]The power with the wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure.

[00:12:16]So there she waits and while she lives and death forgets and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:12:27]And like a giant harp that hums on and always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending, the city trembles, throbs and pounds outside, and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:12:50]Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of thine, unsought, unthought of and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird safe in her comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:13:13]End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

[00:13:23]>> The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson, read for librivox.org.

[00:13:28]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:13:38]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long, and when she smiles her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:13:48]Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated, but no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:14:07]To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her, as heretofore, of what they know, of roses that are still to blow, by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:14:30]They stay a while, and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:14:52]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken.

[00:14:57]Whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes, while she wears and mends, the poor relation's odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:15:13]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it, with even the stopped ears of the strong, for breaking heart or broken spirit, the friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:15:36]None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:15:43]The plover with a wounded wing stares not the flight that others measure.

[00:15:49]So, there she waits, and while she lives, and death forgets, and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:16:00]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending. The city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside, and through a thousand sounds, the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:16:21]Bereft enough to shame a sage, and giving little to long sighing, with no illusion to a sewage, the lonely changeless of dying, unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:16:44]End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

[00:16:53]>> The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

[00:16:57]Read for librivox.org by Lee Salter, Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, USA.

[00:17:06]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:17:18]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long. And when she smiles, her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:17:30]Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:17:42]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:17:53]To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her.

[00:18:06]And heretofore of what they know, of roses that are still to blow, byways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:18:19]They stay a while and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:18:31]Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:18:42]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken.

[00:18:48]Whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes, while she wears and mends, the poor relations odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:19:07]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it, with even the stopped ears of the strong, for breaking heart or broken spirit.

[00:19:19]The friends who clamored for her place, and would have scratched her for her face, have lost their laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it. None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure, the plover with the wounded wing, stays not the flight that others measure.

[00:19:44]So, there she waits, and while she lives, and death forgets, and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:19:56]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending.

[00:20:08]The city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside and through a thousand sounds, the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:20:21]Bereft enough to shame a sage, and given little to long sighing, with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying.

[00:20:33]Unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird, safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:20:46]End of poem.

[00:20:48]This recording is in the public domain.

[00:20:58]>> The poor relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

[00:21:02]Read for librivox.org by G. Kent.

[00:21:06]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:21:18]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long.

[00:21:22]And when she smiles, her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:21:27]Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:21:38]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:21:47]To those who came for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her, as heretofore, of what they know of roses that are still to blow by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:22:09]They stay awhile, and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:22:20]Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay.

[00:22:26]She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:22:32]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost, not to be forsaken, whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes while she wears and mends the poor relation's odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:22:55]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit.

[00:23:06]The friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:23:17]None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:23:24]The plover with a wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure.

[00:23:28]So, there she waits and while she lives and death forgets and faith forgives her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:23:40]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what is past and had an ending the city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:24:03]Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing with no illusions to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying unsought, unthought of, and unheard she sings and watches like a bird safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:24:27]End of poem.

[00:24:28]This recording is in the public domain.

[00:24:36]>> The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson read for librivox.org by Lee V. Ogler.

[00:24:45]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:24:57]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long. And when she smiles, her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:25:08]Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:25:19]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:25:31]To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her as heretofore of what they know of roses that are still to blow by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:25:57]They stay a while, and having done what penance for the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:26:09]Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay.

[00:26:15]She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:26:21]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken, or else she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes while she wears and mends the poor relations' odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:26:47]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit.

[00:27:00]The friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:27:13]None live to need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:27:19]The plover with the wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure.

[00:27:25]So, there she waits, and while she lives, and death forgets, and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood's song they treasure.

[00:27:38]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending, the city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside, and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:28:03]Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing, with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying, unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:28:29]End of poem.

[00:28:30]This recording is in the public domain.

[00:28:39]>> The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

[00:28:44]Read for librivox.org by Morgan Van and No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes.

[00:28:57]Her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:29:01]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long. And when she smiles, her forehead shows a crinkle that has been her mother's.

[00:29:11]Beneath her beauty blanched with pain and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:29:23]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:29:33]To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her.

[00:29:45]As heretofore of what they know, of roses that are still to blow, by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:29:56]They stay a while, and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires.

[00:30:06]Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity having played soon tires.

[00:30:17]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken. Whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken.

[00:30:28]But welcomes while she wears and demands the poor relations odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:30:39]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it.

[00:30:45]With even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit, the friends who clamored for her place and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:31:01]None live who need fear anything from her, whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:31:06]The plover with a wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure. So, there she waits, and while she lives, and death forgets, and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure.

[00:31:21]And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending, the city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside.

[00:31:34]And through a thousand sounds, the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:31:42]Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing, with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying, unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird, safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:32:05]End of poem.

[00:32:06]This recording is in the public domain.

[00:32:19]>> The Poor Relation by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

[00:32:24]Read for librivox.org by Phil Schamp.

[00:32:28]No longer torn by what she knows and sees within the eyes of others, her doubts are when the daylight goes, her fears are for the few she bothers.

[00:32:39]She tells them it is wholly wrong of her to stay alive so long, and when she smiles her forehead shows a crinkle that had been her mother's.

[00:32:49]Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain, and wistful yet for being cheated, a child would seem to ask again a question many times repeated.

[00:33:00]But no rebellion has betrayed her wonder at what she [clears throat] has paid for memories that have no stain, for triumph born to be defeated.

[00:33:11]To those who come for what she was, the few left who know where to find her, she clings, for they are all she has, and she may smile when they remind her, as heretofore, of what they know of roses that are still to blow by ways where not so much as grass remains of what she sees behind her.

[00:33:34]They stay a while, and having done what penance or the past requires, they go and leave her there alone to count her chimneys and her spires. Her lip shakes when they go away, and yet she would not have them stay. She knows as well as anyone that pity, having played, soon tires.

[00:33:55]But one friend always reappears, a good ghost not to be forsaken, whereat she laughs and has no fears of what a ghost may reawaken, but welcomes, while she wears and mends, the poor reason's odds and ends, her truant from a tomb of years, her power of youth so early taken.

[00:34:18]Poor laugh, more slender than her song it seems, and there are none to hear it with even the stopped ears of the strong for breaking heart or broken spirit.

[00:34:30]The friends who clamored for her place, and would have scratched her for her face have lost her laughter for so long that none would care enough to fear it.

[00:34:41]None live who need fear anything from her whose losses are their pleasure.

[00:34:46]The plover with a wounded wing stays not the flight that others measure. So there she waits, and while she lives and death forgets and faith forgives, her memories go foraging for bits of childhood song they treasure. And like a giant harp that hums on always and is always blending the coming of what never comes with what has passed and had an ending, the city trembles, throbs, and pounds outside, and through a thousand sounds the small intolerable drums of time are like slow drops descending.

[00:35:27]Bereft enough to shame a sage and given little to long sighing, with no illusion to assuage the lonely changelessness of dying, unsought, unthought of, and unheard, she sings and watches like a bird, safe in a comfortable cage from which there will be no more flying.

[00:35:51]End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.