A Song Of Harvest Home.

    Praise God for blessings great and small,
    For garden bloom and orchard store,
    The crimson vine upon the wall,
    The green and gold of maples tall,
    For harvest-field and threshing-floor!

    Praise God for children's laughter shrill,
    For clinging hands and tender eyes,
    For looks that lift and words that thrill,
    For friends that love through good and ill,
    For home, and all home's tender ties!

    Praise God for losses and for gain,
    For tears to shed, and songs to sing,
    For gleams of gold and mists of rain,
    For the year's full joy, the year's deep pain,
    The grieving and the comforting!

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

The Old Man's Visit.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

April.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Strength.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Estranged.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Thankfulness.

            I thank Thee, Lord,
            For every joyous hour
            That has been mine!
    For every strengthening and helpful word,
    For every tender sound that I have heard,
            I thank Thee, Lord!

            I thank Thee, Lord,
            For work and weariness
            That have been mine!
    For patience toward one groping toward the light,
    For mid-day burden and for rest of night,
            I thank Thee, Lord.

Jean Blewett

Thank God For Little Children.

Thank God for little children,
    Bright flowers by earth's wayside,
The dancing, joyous lifeboats
    Upon life's stormy tide.

Thank God for little children;
    When our skies are cold and gray,
They come as sunshine to our hearts,
    And charm our cares away.


I almost think the angels,
    Who tend life's garden fair,
Drop down the sweet wild blossoms
    That bloom around us here.

It seems a breath of heaven
    Round many a cradle lies,
And every little baby
    Brings a message from the skies.

Dear mothers, guard these jewels.
    As sacred offerings meet,
A wealth of household treasures
    To lay at Jesus' feet.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Harvests.

Other harvests there are than those that lie
Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky,
    Awaiting the sickle keen,
Harvests more precious than golden grain,
Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain,
    Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of God,
Do those harvests vast enrich the sod,
    For all may the sickle wield;
The first in proud ambition's race,
The last in talent, power or place,
    Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain,
High office or golden prize to gain,
    Rest both weary heart and head,
And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp,
How earthly things will elude thy grasp,
    At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow,

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

When Trees Are Green.

    Would you be glad of heart and good?
    Would you forget life's toil and care?
    Come, lose yourself in this old wood
    When May's soft touch is everywhere.

    The hawthorn trees are white as snow,
    The basswood flaunts its feathery sprays,
    The willows kiss the stream below
    And listen to its flatteries:

    "O willows supple, yellow, green,
    Long have I flowed o'er stock and stone,
    I say with truth I have not seen
    A rarer beauty than your own!"

    The rough-bark hickory, elm, and beech
    With quick'ning thrill and growth are rife;
    Oak, maple, through the heart of each
    There runs a glorious tide of life.

    Fresh leaves, young buds on every hand,
    On trunk and limb a hint of red,
 ...

Jean Blewett

A Song Of Harvest

This day, two hundred years ago,
The wild grape by the river's side,
And tasteless groundnut trailing low,
The table of the woods supplied.

Unknown the apple's red and gold,
The blushing tint of peach and pear;
The mirror of the Powow told
No tale of orchards ripe and rare.

Wild as the fruits he scorned to till,
These vales the idle Indian trod;
Nor knew the glad, creative skill,
The joy of him who toils with God.

O Painter of the fruits and flowers!
We thank Thee for thy wise design
Whereby these human hands of ours
In Nature's garden work with Thine.

And thanks that from our daily need
The joy of simple faith is born;
That he who smites the summer weed,
May trust Thee for the autumn corn.

Give fools their gol...

John Greenleaf Whittier

Song Of The Golden Sea.

    Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
    Sing to the breezes passing by,
    Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
    Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

    Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
    Morning and noon and night for long,
    Sun and rain and dew and mist,
    All that has made you glad and strong

    The harvest fields of the far, far west
    Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
    Every ripple upon its breast
    Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!

    Far as the eye can reach it goes,
    Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
    Under a sky where blue and rose
    With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

    Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
    Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
    He...

Jean Blewett