Biography of Mathilde Blind
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 Highlands , and “The Ascent of Man” (1888), which was to be the epic of the theory of evolution. She wrote biographies of George Eliot (1883) and Madame Roland (1886), and translated D.F. Strauss’s The Old Faith and the New’ (1873—1874) and the Memoirs of Marie Bashkirtse , (1890). She died on the 26th of November 1896, bequeathing her property to Newnbam College, Cambridge.
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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.
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,
I was an Arab, I loved my horse; Swift as an arrow He swept the course.
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
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;
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
If You But 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,
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,
I've watched thee, Scarab! Yea, an hour in vain
I've watched thee, slowly toiling up the hill,
Pushing thy lump of mud before thee still
With patience infinite and stubborn strain.
Strive as thou mayst, spare neither time nor pain,
To screen thy burden from all chance of ill;
Push, push, with all a beetle's force of will,
Thy ball, alas! rolls ever down again.