Who is Maurice Maeterlinck

Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck (29 August 1862 – 6 May 1949), also known as Count (or Comte) Maeterlinck from 1932, was a Belgian playwright, poet, and essayist who was Flemish but wrote in French. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1911 "in appreciation of his many-sided literary activities, and especially of his dramatic works, which are distinguished by a wealth of imagination and by a poetic fancy, which reveals, sometimes in the guise of a fairy tale, a deep inspiration, while in a mysterious way they appeal to the readers' own feelings and stimulate their imaginations". The main themes in his work are death and the meaning of life. He was a leading member of La Jeune Belgique group and his plays form an important part of the Symbolist movement. In later lif...
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Dailymaverick: maurice maeterlinck was right when he said: ‘an act of goodness is of itself an act of happiness. no reward coming after the event can compare with the sweet reward that went with it.’ our support to a primary school in mamelodi, linking it with a ...
Ttlastspring: books to take along: maurice maeterlinck, wilfred campbell, izaak walton - philosophy, poetry and fishing.
Kyji_delulu: when we lose one we love, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when we loved not enough- maurice maeterlinck. kyji here twostay
Justice78602373: an act of goodness is of itself an act of happiness.” ― maurice maeterlinck joyful sushant
Atabara15159442: but cannot we live as though we always loved? it was this that the saints and heroes did, this and nothing more.,maurice maeterlinck, the treasure of the humble,eternal, heroes, live, love, saints
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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