Mathilde Blind

(1841 - 1896 / Germany)

Mathilde Blind Poems

1. A Bridal In The Bois De Boulogne. 4/20/2010
2. A Child's Fancy 1/3/2003
3. A Dream 1/3/2003
4. A Fantasy 1/3/2003
5. A Parable 4/20/2010
6. A Parting 1/3/2003
7. A Spring Song 1/3/2003
8. A Symbol 1/3/2003
9. A White Night 4/20/2010
10. A Winter Landscape 1/3/2003
11. Affinities 4/20/2010
12. Ah, If You Knew 1/3/2003
13. Ah, Yesterday Was Dark And Drear 1/3/2003
14. All My Heart Is Stirring Lightly 1/3/2003
15. Analkh 1/3/2003
16. Anne Hathaway 4/20/2010
17. Anne Hathaway's Cottage 4/20/2010
18. Apple-Blossom 1/3/2003
19. April Rain 1/3/2003
20. As Many Stars 4/20/2010
21. Autumn Tints 1/3/2003
22. Ave Maria In Rome 4/20/2010
23. Beauty 1/3/2003
24. Between Sleep And Waking 4/20/2010
25. Brown Eyes 1/3/2003
26. Cagnes 1/3/2003
27. Cedars Of Lebanon At Warwick Castle 4/20/2010
28. Christmas Even 1/3/2003
29. Cleave Thou The Waves 1/3/2003
30. Cleve Woods 4/20/2010
31. Cross-Roads 4/20/2010
32. Dead Love 1/3/2003
33. Deep In A Yew-Sequestered Grove 1/3/2003
34. Delight 4/20/2010
35. Despair 1/3/2003
36. Dost Thou Remember Ever 1/3/2003
37. Echoes Of Spring 4/20/2010
38. Egyptian Theosophy 1/3/2003
39. Entangled 4/20/2010
40. Evensong 4/20/2010

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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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