Mathilde Blind

(1841 - 1896 / Germany)

Mathilde Blind Poems

81. Echoes Of Spring 4/20/2010
82. Entangled 4/20/2010
83. Evensong 4/20/2010
84. Marriage 4/20/2010
85. Mystery Of Mysteries 4/20/2010
86. Noonday Rest 4/20/2010
87. Ode To A Child 4/20/2010
88. On A Letter 4/20/2010
89. On A Torso Of Cupid 4/20/2010
90. On Guido's Aurora 4/20/2010
91. Lines Ii 4/20/2010
92. Lost Treasure 4/20/2010
93. Love And The Muse 4/20/2010
94. Love's Phantom 4/20/2010
95. In Spring 4/20/2010
96. Invocation 4/20/2010
97. Perfect Union 4/20/2010
98. Question And Answer 4/20/2010
99. Reapers 4/20/2010
100. Renunciation 4/20/2010
101. Rest 4/20/2010
102. Roman Anemones 4/20/2010
103. Shakespeare 4/20/2010
104. Song I 4/20/2010
105. Song Ii 4/20/2010
106. Soul-Drift 4/20/2010
107. Soul's Call 4/20/2010
108. Spring In The Alps 4/20/2010
109. Sundered Paths 4/20/2010
110. The Abandoned 4/20/2010
111. The Avon 4/20/2010
112. The Forest Pool 4/20/2010
113. The Mirror Of Diana 4/20/2010
114. The Moat 4/20/2010
115. The Mystic's Vision 4/20/2010
116. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part I 4/20/2010
117. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part Ii 4/20/2010
118. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part Iii 4/20/2010
119. The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part Iv 4/20/2010
120. The Wanderer 4/20/2010

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Best Poem of Mathilde Blind

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,
If you but knew!

Ah, if you knew how sick and sore
My life flags for the want of you,
Straightway you'd enter at the door
And clasp my hand between your two,
If you but knew!

Ah, if you knew how lost and lone
I watch and weep and wait for you,
You'd press my heart close to your own
Till love had healed me through and through,
If you but knew!

Read the full of If You But Knew

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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