My Valentine.

    O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy,
        You make my heart rejoice;
    Your presence is like Arcady,
        There's music in your voice;
    Heaven's purity is on your brow,
        Its light is in your eyne;
    I love you, and I ask you now
        To be my Valentine.

    Your face is like the lily in
        The morning's ruddy light;
    Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin
        Are blessings to my sight;
    Your lips are fairer than the rose
        And redder far than wine;
    Your teeth are whiter than the snows:
        You'll be my Valentine!

    You are not quite so old as I,
        You've seen but summers three;
    And that's no doubt the reason why
        You are not coy with me.
    I'll come to you to-morrow,
        And on chocolates we'll dine;
    And you'll have no thought of sorrow
        When you are my Valentine.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Study In Solitude.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Success.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Old And The New.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Separation.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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My Valentine.

I.

I passed her on the crowded street--
This winsome maid, demure and sweet--
And envious saw the silken tresses
That seemed to give her cheeks caresses,
And rapture felt that thrilled me through
When on me glanced those eyes of blue
From underneath the drooping lashes
That could not hide their azure flashes!
And oh, I dreampt of bliss divine
If she would be--my Valentine!


II.

And visions of as fair a face
As painter's pencil e'er did trace
Would haunt the mind each waking hour,
And slumber owned its magic power--
Until I found by merest chance
That belladonna made the glance,
And borrowed hair had lent its aid
For silken tresses of this maid--
And padding--paint--did all combine
To make for me--my Valentine!

George W. Doneghy

St. Valentine.

    The girl's a slender thing and fair,
    With dimpled cheek and eyes ashine;
    The youth is tall, with bashful air.
    Heigho! a fond and foolish pair -
        The day is yours, St. Valentine.

    He says: "My heart will constant prove,
    Since every beat of it is thine;
    The sweetest joy of life is love."
    The birds are mating in the grove -
        The day is yours, St. Valentine.

    What matter that the wind blows chill
    Through leafless tree and naked vine,
    That snowdrifts linger on the hill,
    When warm love makes the pulses thrill?
        The day is yours, St. Valentine.

Jean Blewett

Her Valentine

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me.
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree,
And hovering above them - just as cute as he can be -
Is a fairy Cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee,
With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly
At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see
That one is meant for "One Who Loves," and one is meant for me.

But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C! -
For the roses they are blushing, and the vase stands awkwardly,
And the little god above it - though as cute as he can be -
Can not breathe the lightest whisper of his burning love for me.

James Whitcomb Riley

Valentines - I. To Mistress Barbara

There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true,
On Valentine's day came a maiden to woo,
And quoth to your mother: "Good-morrow, my dear,
We came with some songs for your daughter to hear!"

Your mother replied: "I'll be pleased to convey
To my daughter what things you may sing or may say!"

Then the first cavalier sung: "My pretty red rose,
I'll love you and court you some day, I suppose!"

And the next cavalier sung, with make-believe tears:
"I've loved you! I've loved you these many long years!"

But the third cavalier (with the brown, bushy head
And the pretty blue jacket and necktie of red)
He drew himself up with a resolute air,
And he warbled: "O maiden, surpassingly fair!
I've loved you long years, and I love you to-day,
And, if you w...

Eugene Field

A Valentine.

    O how shall I write a love-ditty
        To my Alice on Valentine's day?
    How win the affection or pity
        Of a being so lively and gay?
    For I'm an unpicturesque creature,
        Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
    Without a respectable feature,
        With a squint and a very queer nose.

    But she is a being seraphic,
        Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
    Who can talk in a manner most graphic
        Every possible language on earth.
    When she's roaming in regions Italic,
        You would think her a fair Florentine;
    She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
        Better far than Rousseau or Racine.

    She sings - sweeter far than a cymbal
        (A sound which I never have heard);
  ...

Edward Woodley Bowling

A Valentine

At last, dear love, the day is gone,
    The doors are barred--the lamps are lit,
The couch beside the fire is drawn,
    The nook whore thou wert wont to sit;

The book is open at the place,
    And half its leaves are still uncut,
And yet without thy listening face,
    I cannot read, the book I shut,

And muse, and dream:--it is the day
    When lovers, silent all the year,
Find tongues in floral tokens gay,
    To whisper all they long to hear.

Ah, many a time, and many a time
    I saw the question in thine eyes,
Where is the silver-sounding rhyme,
    The simple household melodies,

The harp that trembled to thy touch;
    Hast thou forgot thine early lore?
And know'st not that I love so much,
    That song contents my...

Kate Seymour Maclean