Her Little Way.

    'Tis woman rules the whole world still,
    Though faults the critics say she has;
    She smiles her smile and works her will -
    'Tis just a little way she has.

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 Firstborn.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Dawn.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Air Castles.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Jessie.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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Woman.

    Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so,
    A mingling of the bitter and the sweet;
    Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low
    Of hope and trust and happiness complete,
    Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire,
    Or make themselves but wells of tenderness
    Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire -
    Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.
    Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth,
    And only heaven fully knows her worth.

Jean Blewett

Her Mission.

    She is so winsome and so wise
    She sways me at her will,
    And oft the question will arise,
    What mission does she fill?
    O then I say with pride untold,
    And love beyond degree,
    This woman with the heart of gold,
    She just keeps house for me -
                    For me,
    She just keeps house for me!

    A full content dwells on her face,
    She's quite in love with life,
    And for a title wears with grace
    The sweet old-fashioned "wife."
    Our children climb upon her knee,
    And nestle on her breast,
    And ah! her mission seems to me
    The grandest and the best.

    O then I say with pride untold,
    And love beyond degree,
    This woman with the heart of gold,
    She just keep...

Jean Blewett

A Good Woman.

    Her eyes are the windows of a soul
    Where only the white thoughts spring,
    And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,
    For the good in everything.

    Her lips can whisper the tenderest words
    That weary and worn can hear,
    Can tell of the dawn of a better morn
    Till only the cowards fear.

    Her hands can lift up the fallen one
    From an overthrow complete,
    Can take a soul from the mire of sin
    And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

    And she can walk wherever she will -
    She walketh never alone.
    The work she does is the Master's work,
    And God guards well His own.

Jean Blewett

To Lillian Massey Treble

    A woman with a heart of gold
    I heard her called before I knew
    How noble was that heart and true,
    How full of tenderness untold.

    Her sympathies both broad and sure,
    Her one desire to do the right -
    Clear visioned from the inner light
    God gives to souls unworldly, pure.

    A heart of gold that loves and gives,
    God's almoner from day to day,
    Of her there is but this to say:
    The world is better that she lives.

Jean Blewett

Little Blue-Ribbons.

"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that
From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;
For may not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?--
As a matter of fact, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.

"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"
Though now and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.

She's a staid little woman! And so as well
Is her ladyship's doll, "Mis...

Henry Austin Dobson

The Secret.

    The throng about her did not know,
    Her nearest friend could not surmise
    Whence came the brightness and the glow,
    The wondrous radiance of her eyes.

    One said, half enviously: "Your face
    Is beautiful with gladness rare,
    With that warm, generous heart of yours
    Some precious secret you must share."

    Ah, true beneath the filmy lace
    That rose and fell upon her breast,
    Her first love-taken held its place -
    From him, from him whom she loved best!

Jean Blewett