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

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

Peace.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Two June Nights.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Remembrance.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

A Prayer Of Love.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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To His Valentine

Muse, bid the Morne awake,
    Sad Winter now declines,
Each Bird doth chuse a Make,
    This day 's Saint VALENTINE'S;
For that good Bishop's sake
Get vp, and let vs see,
What Beautie it shall bee,
    That Fortune vs assignes.

But lo, in happy How'r,
    The place wherein she lyes,
In yonder climbing Tow'r,
    Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;
O IOVE! that in a Show'r,
As once that Thund'rer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
    That I could her surprize.

Her Canopie Ile draw,
    With spangled Plumes bedight,
No Mortall euer saw
    So rauishing a sight;
That it the Gods might awe,
And pow'rfully trans-pierce
The Globie Vniuerse,
    Out-shooting eu'ry Light.

My Lips Ile softly lay
    Vpon her heau'nl...

Michael Drayton

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

Valentine

        This is the time for birds to mate;
                To-day the dove
        Will mark the ancient amorous date
                With moans of love;
        The crow will change his call to prate
                His hopes thereof.

        The starling will display the red
                That lights his wings;
        The wren will know the sweet things said
                By him who swings
        And ducks and dips his crested head
                And sings and sings.

        They are obedient to their blood,
                Nor ask a sign,
        Save buoyant air and swelling bud,
                At hands divine,
        But choose, each in the barren wood,
                His valentine.

        In caution's maze they nev...

John Charles McNeill

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

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,

W. M. MacKeracher

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