Peace.

    Unbroken peace, I ween, is sweeter far
    Than reconciliation. Love's red scar,
    Though salved with kiss of penitence, and tears,
    Remains, full oft, unhealed through all the years.

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 Tryst.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Men O' The Forest Mark.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Way To Dreamland

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Chore Time.

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.

Forgive And Forget.

    I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,
    I'll tell you the sweetest thing -
    'Tis saying to one that we love: "Forgive
    The careless words and the sting;
    Forgive and forget, and be friends once more,
    For the world is an empty place
    Without the light of your warm, true eyes,
    And the smile of your tender face."

    O the kissing and making up again,
    And the tender whispering!
    I'll tell you the sweetest thing, dear heart,
    I'll tell you the sweetest thing.

    I'll tell you the saddest thing, dear heart,
    I'll tell you the saddest thing:
    'Tis coming to one that we love full well,
    Some tender message to bring.
    And loitering, loitering, by the way -
    Held back by a foolish pride -

Jean Blewett

Reconciliation

Word over all, beautiful as the sky!
Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost;
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night, incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world:
For my enemy is dead a man divine as myself is dead;
I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin I draw near;
I bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.

Walt Whitman

The Parting.

    One summer's morning I heard a lark
    Singing to heaven, a sweet-throated bird;
    One winter's night I was glad in the dark
    Because of the wondrous song I had heard.

    The joy of life, I have heard you say,
    Is my love, my laughter, my smiles and tears;
    When I have gone on the long, strange way,
    Let these stay with you through all the years -

    These be the lark's song. What is love worth
    That cannot crowd, in the time that's given
    To two like us on this gray old earth,
    Such bliss as will last till we reach heaven?

    Dear one, think oft of the full, glad years,
    And, thinking of them, forget to weep.
    Whisper: "Remembrance holds no tears!"
    And kiss my mouth when I fall on sleep.

Jean Blewett

Remembrance.

    "Once they were lovers," says the world, "with young hearts all aglow;
    They have forgotten," says the world, "forgotten long ago."
    Between ourselves - just whisper it - the old world does not know.

    They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes
    Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.

Jean Blewett

Her Prayer.

    Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
    The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
    The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
    Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
    I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine -
    This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
    Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
    Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
    Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
    Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
    Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
    Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
    And pity me when Thou d...

Jean Blewett

Love's Service.

    Your presence is a psalm of praise,
    And as its measure grandly rings
    God's finger finds my heart and plays
    A te deum upon its strings.
    I never see you but I feel
    That I in gratitude must kneel.

    Your head down-bent, the brow of snow
    Crowned with the shining braids of hair,
    To me, because I love you so,
    Is in itself a tender prayer,
    All faith, all meekness, and all trust -
    "Amen!" I cry, because I must.

    Your clear eyes hold the text apart,
    And shame my love of place and pelf
    With, "Love the Lord with all thine heart,
    And love thy neighbor as thyself!"
    Dear eyes and true, - I sorely need
    More knowledge of your gracious creed.

    About your lips the summer l...

Jean Blewett