Mathilde Blind (1841 - 1896 / Germany)
I Think of Thee in Watches of the Night
I think of thee in watches of the night,
I feel thee near;
Like mystic lamps consumed with too much light
Thine eyes burn clear.
The barriers that divide us in the day
And hide from view,
Like idle cobwebs now are brushed away
Between us two.
I probe the deep recesses of thy mind
And in its inmost labyrinth I find
My own lost soul.
No longer like an exile on the earth
I wildly roam,
I was thy double from the hour of birth
And thou my home.
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