Mathilde Blind

(1841 - 1896 / Germany)

Mathilde Blind Poems

1. The Mystic's Vision 4/20/2010
2. When You Wake 1/3/2003
3. Manchester By Night 1/3/2003
4. The Passing Year 1/3/2003
5. The Dying Dragoman 1/3/2003
6. The Sâkiyeh 1/3/2003
7. The Woods Shake In An Ague-Fit 1/3/2003
8. Echoes Of Spring 4/20/2010
9. Lost Treasure 4/20/2010
10. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part Ii 4/20/2010
11. To Hope 4/20/2010
12. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part I 4/20/2010
13. Invocation 4/20/2010
14. Cleve Woods 4/20/2010
15. Mystery Of Mysteries 4/20/2010
16. Perfect Union 4/20/2010
17. Cleave Thou The Waves 1/3/2003
18. Christmas Even 1/3/2003
19. New Year's Eve 1/3/2003
20. Dead Love 1/3/2003
21. The Tombs Of The Kings 1/3/2003
22. Internal Firesides 1/3/2003
23. The Beautiful Beeshareen Boy 1/3/2003
24. Hope 1/3/2003
25. The Desert 1/3/2003
26. Haunted Streets 1/3/2003
27. Reapers 4/20/2010
28. I Am Athirst, But Not For Wine 1/3/2003
29. On Life's Long Round 1/3/2003
30. Thou Walkest With Me 1/3/2003
31. Egyptian Theosophy 1/3/2003
32. Despair 1/3/2003
33. Only A Smile 1/3/2003
34. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part Iv 4/20/2010
35. The Street-Children's Dance 4/20/2010
36. The Moat 4/20/2010
37. I Charge You 1/3/2003
38. Renunciation 4/20/2010
39. Delight 4/20/2010
40. Welcome To Egypt 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Mathilde Blind

April Rain

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
The ...

Read the full of April Rain

Scarabæus Sisyphus

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.

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