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1841–1896

XIII.

Mathilde Blind

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.

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XIII. · Mathilde Blind · Poetry Cove