Margaret.

    Her eyes - upon a summer's day
    God's skies are not more blue than they.

    Her hair - you've seen a sunbeam bold
    Made up of just such threads of gold.

    Her cheek - the leaf which nearest grows
    The dewy heart of June's red rose.

    Her mouth - full lipped, and subtly sweet
    As briar drowned in summer heat.

    Her heart - December's chill and snow -
    Heaven pity me, who love her so!

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

Vashti.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

All On An April Morning.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Decorating The Old Church.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Lake Shore Road.

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.

Margaret.

I saw her for a moment,
    Her presence haunts me yet,
In oft-recurring visions
    Of grace and gladness met
That marked the sweet demeanor
    Of dainty Margaret.

Like gossamer her robe was
    Around her lightly drawn,
A filmy summer-garment
    That fairy maidens don
To make them look like angels
    Croqueting on the lawn.

The mallet-sport became her
    In hue of exercise
That tinged her cheek with roses;
    And, dancing in her eyes,
Were pantomime suggestions
    Of having won - a prize.

No more to me a stranger
    Is she who occupies
A place in all my musings;
    And brings in tender guise
A thought of one so like her -
    Long years in Paradise.

Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"
...

Hattie Howard

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

Margaret

I.
O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,
From all things outward you have won
A tearful grace, as tho you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
That dimples your transparent cheek,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
The senses with a still delight
Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spreadeth,
Moving thro a fleecy night.

II.
You love, remaining peacefull...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Song Of Margaret.

Ay, I saw her, we have met, -
Married eyes how sweet they be, -
Are you happier, Margaret,
Than you might have been with me?
Silence! make no more ado!
Did she think I should forget?
Matters nothing, though I knew,
Margaret, Margaret.

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,
Told a certain thing to mine;
What they told me I put by,
O, so careless of the sign.
Such an easy thing to take,
And I did not want it then;
Fool! I wish my heart would break,
Scorn is hard on hearts of men.

Scorn of self is bitter work, -
Each of us has felt it now:
Bluest skies she counted mirk,
Self-betrayed of eyes and brow;
As for me, I went my way,
And a better man drew nigh,
Fain to earn, with long essay,
What the winner's hand threw by....

Jean Ingelow

God's Warmth Is She.

    O glad sun, creeping through the casement wide,
    A million blossoms have you kissed since morn,
    But none so fair as this one at my side -
    Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born.

    Towards all the world my love and pity flow,
    With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy.
    This happy heart of mine is all aglow -
    This heart that was so cold - God's warmth is she.

Jean Blewett

Marguerite

Lightly the shadows
Play through the trees,
Green are the meadows,
Soft is the breeze, -
June's early roses,
Pensive and sweet,
Droop where reposes
Lost Marguerite!

Meeting thee never
In the green bowers, -
Missing thee ever
'Mid the fresh flowers, -
Till the long hours die -
Hours once so fleet -
Hopelessly wait I,
Lost Marguerite!

Day has grown weary
In the blue sky,
Summer is dreary,
Melodies die;
Lowly the willow
Droopeth to meet
And kiss thy pillow,
Lost Marguerite!

Flower the fairest
Of sweet summer time,
Rosebud the rarest
Plucked ere its prime,
Mine to weep ever
Where the wares beat,
Meeting thee never,
Lost Marguerite!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)