Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

The horizon draws the line
at having been tamped down
all through a slutchy autumn,
moves in as a caul
of rain which blears the hills,
hissing like the prefix that history
adds to words and laughter:
finally, shrinks to the glimmering
from under a stable door,
a straw-breadth of light which can only
imply the warmth of spring
or the memory of it – the long
pursed buds of the lily
peeling open on the angel’s wand.