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1841–1896

VIII.

Mathilde Blind

When you wake from troubled slumbers With a dream-bewildered brain, And old leaves which no man numbers Chattering tap against the pane;

And the midnight wind is wailing Till your very life seems quailing As the long gusts shudder and sigh: Know you not that homeless cry

Is my love's, which cannot die, Wailing through Eternity? When beside the glowing embers, Sitting in the twilight lone,

Drop on drop you hear November's Melancholy monotone, As the heavy rain comes sweeping, With a sound of weeping, weeping,

Till your blood is chilled with fears; Know you not those falling tears, Flowing fast through years on years, For my sobs within your ears?

When with dolorous moan the billows Surge around where, far and wide, Leagues on leagues of sea-worn hollows Throb with thunders of the tide,

And the weary waves in breaking Fill you, thrill you, as with aching Memories of our love of yore Where you pace the sounding shore,

Hear you not, through roll and roar, Soul call soul for evermore?

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VIII. · Mathilde Blind · Poetry Cove