Reapers
Sun-Tanned men and women, toiling there together;
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure:
Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree tops;
Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;
In the grassy shallows, that no breath is creasing,
Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank
Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing
Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.
Nature takes a rest-even her bees are sleeping,
And the silent wood seems a church that's shut;
But these human creatures cease not from their reaping
While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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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.
My heart, long silent, at thy voice that day
Chimed in my breast like to a silver bell.
How much we spoke, and yet still left untold
Some secret half revealed within our eyes:
Didst thou not love me once in ages old?
Had I not called thee with importunate cries,
And, like a child left sobbing in the cold,
Listened to catch from far thy fond replies?
We met as strangers, and as such we part;
Yet all my life seems leaving me with thine;
Ah, to be clasped once only heart to heart,
If only once to feel that thou wert mine!
These lips are locked, and yet I know thou art
That all in all for which my soul did pine.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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The Wanderer
ON unknown paths I falter forth,
A homeless wand'rer in the world;
Doubtful I flit across the earth,
Whither by blowing fates I'm hurled.
I grope about the pathless wood;
I tread along the boundless plain;
And with the wind's capricious mood,
I sink and rise upon the main.
The lonely cloud within the sky,
That by conflicting gales is torn,
Sways to and fro no more than I,
Now eastward, and now westward borne.
The crested billow on the deep
Knows to which shore its current lies;
The blast--the realms which he must sweep;
The ant--the hill to which it hies.
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Apple-Blossom
Blossom of the apple trees!
Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary,
Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory,
Clustered petals soft as fleece
Garlanding old apple trees!
How you gleam at break of day!
When the coy sun, glancing rarely,
Pouts and sparkles in the pearly
Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay
On each dancing leaf and spray.
Through your latticed boughs on high,
Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches
Brief kaleidoscopic snatches
Of deep lapis-lazuli
In the April-coloured sky.
When the sundown's dying brand
Leaves your beauty to the tender
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Pauper Poet's Song
Sun, moon, and stars, the ample air,
The birds shrill whistling everywhere,
Fields white with lambs and daisies;
The pearls of eve, the jewelled morn,
The rose rich blowing on the thorn,
The glow of blush-rose faces;
The silver glint of sun-smit rain,
The shattered sun-gold of the main,
And heaven's sweet breath that moves it;
The earth, our myriad-bosomed nurse,
This whole miraculous universe
Belongs to him who loves it!
Why fret then for the gold of this,
The fame of that man, or the bliss,
Or such another's graces?
Oh heart that chim'st with golden verse,
My heart, thou art the magic purse
Which all dull trouble chases;
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Noonday Rest
THE willows whisper very, very low
Unto the listening breeze;
Sometimes they lose a leaf which, flickering slow,
Faints on the sunburnt leas.
Beneath the whispering boughs and simmering skies,
On the hot ground at rest,
Still as a stone, a ragged woman lies,
Her baby at the breast.
Nibbling around her browse monotonous sheep,
Flies buzz about her head;
Her heavy eyes are shuttered by a sleep
As of the slumbering dead.
The happy birds that live to love and sing,
Flitting from bough to bough,
Peer softly at this ghastly human thing
With grizzled hair and brow.
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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I Was Again Beside Thee in a Dream
I was again beside thee in a dream:
Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining;
The muffled voice of many a cataract stream
Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining,
Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.
The wind lay spell-bound in each pillared pine,
The tasselled larches had no sound or motion,
As my whole life was sinking into thine--
Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean
Of infinite love--uncircumscribed, divine.
Night held her breath, it seemed, with all her stars:
Eternal eyes that watched in mute compassion
Our little lives o'erleap their mortal bars,
Fused in the fulness of immortal passion,
A passion as immortal as the stars.
There was no longer any thee or me;
No sense of self, no wish or incompleteness
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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On a Viola D'Amore
CARVED WITH A CUPID'S HEAD, AND PLAYED ON FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER MORE THAN A CENTURY.
What fairy music clear and light,
Responsive to your fingers,
Swells rippling on the summer night,
And amorously lingers
Upon the sense, as long ago
In days of rouge and rococo!
A century of silence lay
On strings that had not spoken
Since powdered lords to ladies gay
Gave, for a lover's token,
Fans glowing fresh from Watteau's art,
Well worth a marchioness's heart.
Your dormant music, tranced and bound,
Was like the Sleeping Beauty
Prince Charming in the forest found,
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Sundered Paths
TWO travellers, worn with sun and rain
And gropings o'er dim paths unknown,
Meet where long separate ways have grown
To one, and then diverge again.
They halt anigh the green wayside,
Where groves pant with the impassioned song
Of nightingales; wild roses throng
There round them leaning side by side.
As close and still more close they cling,
Like some weird tale--once more in dreams
Lived through with ghastlier horror--seems
That old, cold, lonely wayfairing.
Oh close sweet clasp of hands! oh sweet
Close beat of heart on happy heart;
Beating as though no more apart
Their pulses ever again should beat!
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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On and On
By long leagues of wood and meadow
On and on we drive apace;
In the dreamy light and shadow
Veiling earth's autumnal face.
Rosy clouds are drifting o'er us,
Rooks rise parleying from their tryst,
And the road lies far before us,
Fading into amethyst.
On and on, through leagues of heather,
Deeps of scarlet beaded lane,
Like a pheasant's golden feather
Golden leaves around us rain.
On and on, where woodlands hoary,
In October's lavish fire,
Flame up with unearthly glory,
Beauteous summer's funeral pyre.
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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