The Message.

    My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands
    A spray of lilies plucked below the brook
    Where the old ruin of a chapel stands -
    A ruin tenanted by many a nook,
    And all the grayness of it hid from sight
    By gracious draping of the ivy green.
    Sweet lilies, 'tis your glorious fate to-night
    To lie upon her breast, to send between
    Her silken bodice and the heart beneath
    The fragrance given you by sun and shower.
    Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath
    Till, 'mid the dance and music of the hour,
    She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face,
    With: "Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!"

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

Jack.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Golden Sea.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Vashti.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

For He Was Scotch, And So Was She.

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.

Married Lovers.

Come away, the clouds are high,
Put the flashing needles by.
Many days are not to spare,
Or to waste, my fairest fair!
All is ready. Come to-day,
For the nightingale her lay,
When she findeth that the whole
Of her love, and all her soul,
Cannot forth of her sweet throat,
Sobs the while she draws her breath,
And the bravery of her note
In a few days altereth.

Come, ere she despond, and see
In a silent ecstasy
Chestnuts heave for hours and hours
All the glory of their flowers
To the melting blue above,
That broods over them like love.
Leave the garden walls, where blow
Apple-blossoms pink, and low
Ordered beds of tulips fine.
Seek the blossoms made divine
With a scent that is their soul.
These are soulless. Bring the whit...

Jean Ingelow

The Little Bell

HOW weak is man! how changeable his mind!
His promises are naught, too oft we find;
I vowed (I hope in tolerable verse,)
Again no idle story to rehearse.
And whence this promise? - Not two days ago;
I'm quite confounded; better I should know:
A rhymer hear then, who himself can boast,
Quite steady for - a minute at the most.
The pow'rs above could PRUDENCE ne'er design;
For those who fondly court the SISTERS NINE.
Some means to please they've got, you will confess;
But none with certainty the charm possess.
If, howsoever, I were doomed to find
Such lines as fully would content the mind:
Though I should fail in matter, still in art;
I might contrive some pleasure to impart.

LET'S see what we are able to obtain: -
A bachelor resided in Touraine.
...

Jean de La Fontaine

The Lake Shore Road.

    'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
    And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
    To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.

    A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
    Of shrub and fern and brake,
    Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
    The coolness of the lake.

    A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
    And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
    The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
    Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
    Of white the elderberry shades her head
    And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.

    From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
    A bird flies with a call of love and joy
    That wins an answer straight
    From that...

Jean Blewett

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
    Of sorrow and of tears,
    A note of grief which seemed to voice
    The sadness of the years.

    'Twas pure, 'twas clear, 'twas wondrous sweet,
    My Lady Nightingale,
    Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
    When all the sky was pale.

Jean Blewett

Poynings.

    Do you remember that June day among
    The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
    Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
    That skipped and chased each other merrily
    In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
    Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
    As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
    Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
    The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
    In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
    And over all the stillness of the hills,
    The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

    The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
    Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
    "Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,
    "Not of our kind, but st...

Jean Blewett

The Fairy Woman's Song.

The fairy woman maketh moan,
    "Well-a-day, and well-a-day,
Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one,
    And thou didst cast my rose away."
Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet,
    "One good ship - the good ship sailed,
One bright star, at last it set,
    One, one chance, forsooth it failed."

Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes,
    Show thy face as thee beseems,
For yet is starlight in the skies,
    Weird woman piteous through my dreams.
"Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now,
    Veiled I sit for evermore,
Rose is shed, and charmèd prow
    Shall not touch the charmèd shore."

There thy sons that were to be,
    Thy small gamesome children play;
There all loves that men foresee
    Straight as wands enrich the way.
Dove-eyed, ...

Jean Ingelow