The Imprisoned Lark.

    Did you send your song to the gates of gold
        In the days of long ago?
    A song of sweetness and gladness untold,
    Till fain was my lady to have and to hold -
        Ah! my lady did not know.

    'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song,
        If we only understood.
    Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong,
    When the days stretch out so weary and long,
        Dear little bird of the wood?

    The sun came so boldly into your cell -
        'Tis the springtime, pretty bird -
    And full sweet the story he had to tell
    Of doings in meadow and wood and dell,
        Till your longing grew and stirred.

    This cage of my lady's has silver bars,
        And my lady's voice is mild,
    But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars,
    Forget the hurt of the prison bars
        In the gladness of freedom wild!

    To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade
        Where dewdrops hide from the sun!
    O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!
    O voices familiar that music made
        Till the full, glad day was done!

    Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood,
        And you stilled the laughing throng.
    To make passionate longing understood
    You took the height and depth of your mood
        And flung them into a song!

    These guests of my lady's did listen, I know,
        When out through the silver bars
    You sent forth a measure, liquid and low
    As laughter of waters that ebb and flow
        Under the shimmering stars.

    You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best
        Your longing heart held in store,
    Till into the careless listener's breast
    There flashed a sudden and vague unrest,
        That grew into something more.

    Eyes saw for a few brief moments' space
        The heights that were never trod,
    And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race
    That was planned in the hours when youth and grace
        Came fresh from the hand of God.

    Only a homesick bird of the field
    Trilling a glorious note!
    Only a homesick bird of the wood
    With heaven in your full throat!

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 Lad From Inverness.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Firstborn.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Harvest Home.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Love's Lesson.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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Songs On The Voices Of Birds. A Poet In His Youth, And The Cuckoo-Bird.

Once upon a time, I lay
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To my ear.
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In her slender hand, her robe
Was all spangled; and she said,
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My Lady Nightingale.

    I heard you singing in the grove,
    My Lady Nightingale;
    The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
    And all the sky was pale.

    A silence - clear as bells of peace
    Your song thrilled on the air,
    Each liquid note a thing of joy,
    And sweet beyond compare.

    Not all of joy - a haunting strain
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    'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
    My Lady Nightingale,
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Jean Blewett

To A Bird At Dawn

O bird that somewhere yonder sings,
    In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn,
Lone in the hush of sleeping things,
    In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;
Your perfect song is too like pain,
And will not let me sleep again.

I think you must be more than bird,
    A little creature of soft wings,
Not yours this deep and thrilling word -
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Surely from no small feathered throat
    Wells that august, eternal note.

As some old language of the dead,
    In one resounding syllable,
Says Rome and Greece and all is said -
    A simple word a child may spell;
So in your liquid note impearled
Sings the long epic of the world.

Unfathomed sweetness of your song,
    With ancient anguish at its core,

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A Lily And A Lute.

(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.)

I.

I opened the eyes of my soul.
    And behold,
A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware, -
For she set her face upward, - aware how in scarlet and gold
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air,
    Lay over with fold upon fold,
    With fold upon fold.

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed,
The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair;
And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named,
    And that no foot hath trod,
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were,
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Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure,
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Songs On The Voices Of Birds. The Nightingale Heard By The Unsatisfied Heart.

    When in a May-day hush
    Chanteth the Missel-thrush
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs;
    When Robin-redbreast sings,
    We think on budding springs,
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers.

    But thou in the trance of light
    Stayest the feeding night,
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise,
    And casts at our glad feet,
    In a wisp of fancies fleet,
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies.

    Her central thought full well
    Thou hast the wit to tell,
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so;
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    To set in a cadence bright,
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    I have no nest as thou,
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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