Mathilde Blind British author, was born at Mannheim on the 21st of March 1841. Her father was a banker named Cohen, but she took the name of Blind after her step-father, the political writer, Karl Blind (1826—1907), one of the exiled leaders of the Baden insurrection in 1848—1849, and an ardent supporter of the various 19th-century movements for the freedom and autonomy of struggling nationalities.
The family was compelled to take refuge in England, where Mathilde devoted herself to literature and to the higher education of women. She produced also three long poems, “The Prophecy of St Oran” (1881), “The Heather on Fire” , (1886), an ‘indignant protest against the evictions in the ... more »
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Mathilde Blind Poems
The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
Oh, brown Eyes with long black lashes, Young brown Eyes, Depths of night from which there flashes Lightning as of summer skies,
Blossom of the apple trees! Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary, Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory, Clustered petals soft as fleece
Ah, If You Knew
Ah, if you knew how soon and late My eyes long for a sight of you Sometimes in passing by my gate You'd linger until fall of dew,
Only a dream, a beautiful baseless dream; Only a bright Flash from your eyes, a brief electrical gleam, Charged with delight.
Snow or Snowdrops?
Is it snow or snowdrops' shimmer Whitens thus the bladed grass, With a faint aërial glimmer,-- Spring or winter, which did pass?
We Met as Strangers
We met as strangers on life's lonely way, And yet it seemed we knew each other well; There was no end to what thou hadst to say, Or to the thousand things I found to tell.
I was an Arab, I loved my horse; Swift as an arrow He swept the course.
Yea, the Roses Are Still on Fire
Yea, the roses are still on fire With the bygone heat of July, Though the least little wind drifting by Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier,
You Make the Sunshine of my Heart
You make the sunshine of my heart And its tempestuous shower; Sometimes the thought of you is like A lilac bush in flower,
A White Night
THE land lay deluged by the Moon; The molten silver of the lake Shimmered in many a broad lagoon Between grey isles, whose copse and brake
Even as on some black background full of night And hollow storm in cloudy disarray, The forceful brush of some great master may More brilliantly evoke a higher light;
Dost Thou Remember Ever
Dost thou remember ever, for my sake, When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake? How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray About our brows like blossom-falls of May
A Winter Landscape
All night, all day, in dizzy, downward flight, Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow, Till every landmark of the earth below, Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight
Comments about Mathilde Blind
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.
The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.
And between shower and shine hath birth