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Ladies and gentlemen, University Extension, the University of Delaware presents Robert Hill year, American poet. I'll open this program.

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But to CPO and the first is my own. It is called Over to you. This record played in the room has lost all the music.

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I heard that night far out at sea. I was alone in my sailboat. Sail breathing Slack later tonight as the ripple at the bow, a passive memo.

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And the total mass as slim black nato plying the North Star. No one within miles of me except where to stop at.

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The lights of a tug signaled three badges in tow. And beyond that of the invisible shoreline, the flashing light and red light have.

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This music came from my radio in the darkness. And tell me that I must say alone until then somehow

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the known to the composer. But which I could barely some eyes. I arrived at dawn and dropped anchor and wrote

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a show and another dream beyond the starlight of this one. The friends I have never found crowding Nepal waiting with wealth

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than the music came to an end. But the 10 or ship moved on to a rhythm deeper than the keel or the waters under the keel,

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and higher than the North Star over the masthead riding. The second C poem I'm going to read is makefiles.

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Justly famous cargos. Has a beautiful rhythm to it. Almost suggests to see Quinn Karim of Nineveh from distant airfare,

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rowing home to Haven in sunny Palestine with the cargo of ivory and apes and peacocks, sandalwood, zeta word and sweet white line,

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stately Spanish, Galilean, coming from the isthmus zipping through the tropics by the Palm Green

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Shaw's or the cargo of diamonds. Emeralds, amethysts, tell passes, and cinnamon and go my dolls. Dirty British coaster with assault, cake,

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smokestack budding through the channel. In the mad much days with a cargo time, coal, road, rail, pig lead, firewood and where and cheap tin trays.

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It's a beautiful contrast between the romantic old ships and they rather to risk realistic martin tramp steamer.

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I'm going to turn now to a poem by Robert Frost called West Running Brook. This is one of his most significant and beautiful poems.

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I think. It's conversation between a young married couple and she is going to have a child. They stand by this book

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and they see how it goes, contrary to most of the roads. Now, even the brook itself, There's something up against the

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current and symbolic of life in the way like overcomes all obstacles. And finally it goes back toward the sauce. That's a very quick explanation

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of another insignificant poem. It's a dialogue than West Running Brook by Robert Frost. Fred, whereas no, no, north is them.

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I love the brook runs West. West Running Brook, then call it West Running Brook, men call it to this day.

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What does it think it's doing running Wes and all the other country Brooks flow ease to reach the ocean. It must be the contrast itself to

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go back contraries the way I can with you and you with me because where where I don't know what we're not Howling.

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Yang on you. We must be something. We've said we too. Let's change that to a three.

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As you and I are married to each other, were both named, the marriage broke. We'll build a bridge across it and the bread shall

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be thrown already sleep decided. Look, it's waving to us with a way to let us know and here's me. Why I'm idea that way it's

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been standing of this Judge Shaw, the black stream catching on a second Rock Fund backward on itself and one light wave.

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And the whitewater road, the black forever not gaining but not losing. Like a bird. While feathers from

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the struggle of whose breath? Fact the dark stream, in fact the Docker pull below the point where it last

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driven wrinkled in a white scar against the Shah. Others. That waves been standing of this Jarrah Shah.

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Ever since rivers I was going to say were made in heaven. It wasn't way to us. It wasn't yet it once, if not to you.

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It was to me in an annunciation. 0 if you take it off to Lady land, as to the country of the Amazons, we men must see you to

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the confines out and leave you there. Cells forbid you enter. It is your broke I have no more say. Yes, you have to go on.

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You thought of something. Speaking contraries. See how the book in that white way runs counter to itself.

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It is from that in water. We were from long, long the fall we went from any creature. Here we and our patients are the steps.

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Get back to the beginning of beginnings. Stream of everything runs away. Some say existence, like a parallel and parallel forever in one place.

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Standstill and dances. But it runs away. It seriously sadly runs away. To fill this void with emptiness.

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It flows beside us in this water broke, but it flows over us. It flows between us. Two separators for panic moment.

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It flows between us overs and with us. And it is time, strength, tone like life and love. And every substance lapsing and substantial.

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The universal cataract and death it spends to nothingness and none resisted, saved by some strange resistance in itself. Not just as swerving,

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but a throwing back as if regret, we're in it and we're sacred. It has this throwing backward on itself. So the fall, most of

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it is always raising and little, sending up a little line friends down and setting up the cup. The brook runs down.

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In setting up our line, the sun runs down and sending out the brook. And there is something sending out the sun. It is this backward motion

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toward the source against the stream that most we see ourselves in. The trivial, if the current thoughts, it is from this in nature.

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We are from, it is most US. Today will be the day you said so. Now today will be the day you said the Brooke was

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called West Running Brook. Today will be the day of what we both said. Now we'll turn to a poet laureate of

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the last century, Alfred Tennyson, and read to lyrics against both of them from the princess is long point.

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This is the beautiful glow, beautiful. The Splenda falls on castle walls and snow, a summons old and story. The long light shakes across

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the legs and the while cataract leaps in Lorraine, blow bugle, blow set the while that goes flying.

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Below, we'll go. Echoes. Dying, dying, dying. Oh, HOCL here.

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How thin and clear? Santa Clara, father going oh, Sweden, far from Griffith and sky. The horns developed plan.

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They may blowing, blow. Let us hear the people thens replying. Low, we'll go. And Zach, hours dying, dying, dying.

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Although they Dian Ya enriched sky. They faint on a hill or feel or river are echoes row from cell to cell and

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grow forever and forever. Blow, Blow, Blow. Set the while that goes flying. And answer echoes.

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Answer. Dying, dying, dying. That Tennyson seems to be expressing and the idea of a echoes very much

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the same thought of continuity that Frost had in his continuous sending up motion of the burrow. And here's another beautiful pilot.

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Lyric, Tennyson's Princess, called Gemini. Now sleeps the crimson petal. Now the light waves the Cyprus in the palace wall now winks the gold

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thin and depauperate found in fat, lie awake and waken bow with me. Now droops the milk by peacock. I could go. And like a ghost,

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Ziglar Amazon to me. Now lies the et al Dan I to the style and all that. Myself and under me

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now slides the silent media. And leaves is shining furrow as thy thoughts in May. Now unfolds the sweetness

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out and slips into the bosom of the lake. So for thyself, my idea is thou and slip into my bosom and they live in me. Ten isn't such a guy finished craftsman?

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He invokes all a harmonies and melodies of the language. Now we turn back to an old ballad, folk poetry.

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And this is a ghost story I call the wife of Russia as well. Now lived a wife, Ashley as well. And the wealthy white fur.

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She, she had three stout and stalwart sons and set them all to see. I hadn't had been a week from week the belly in when

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word came to the col and why? It had three sons who again, there hadn't been a week from week 3 when word gain to the common line.

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That has some she'd never see. I wish the way I may never sees. Now Fascism flat. Till my three sons come home,

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they in the flesh and blood, but fell about the mountain miss. When nights along and they can live, three sons came home and the hats are other

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but neither grew and psych not ditch. Know yet in any chef. The Gates of Paradise that the grove fair Anna,

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blow up the file and I maidens, rain water from the well. Draw my house, shall feast this night since my three sons as well.

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And she has made them a bed. She's made it large and line, which she stay in her mantle with her about, sat down at the bed side up then

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crew the red red car going up and grew the gray. The eldest to the youngest said, this time we were away.

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The cock, he hadn't a crowd at once and cracked his wings at all. When the youngest to the eldest said, rather, we must evolve.

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What does call the day the door, the Chandra and wounded chid in weaving, missed out about placed a sad pain. Women died.

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Nice, still alive. Still that a little. We Wow. I still, but if we may,

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again, my mother, she misses when she wakes. She'll go mad. The day. Fare you well, the mother, their farewell to ban and bad and say,

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well done in us. That Kindles my mother's file.