The Tryst.

    The harvest moon in yellow haze
    Is steeping all the sea and land,
    Is kindling paths and shining ways
    Around the hills, across the sand.

    And there are only thou and I -
    O sweetheart, I've no eyes to note
    The glory of the sea and sky,
    I see a softly rounded throat,

    A face uplifted, pure and sweet,
    Two blue eyes filled with trust and love;
    Enough, the sea sings at our feet,
    The harvest moon sails just above.

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

Slander.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Stable-Boy's Guest.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

In Memoriam.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Cricket.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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Song Of The Golden Sea.

    Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
    Sing to the breezes passing by,
    Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
    Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

    Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
    Morning and noon and night for long,
    Sun and rain and dew and mist,
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    The harvest fields of the far, far west
    Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
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    Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!

    Far as the eye can reach it goes,
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Sailing Beyond Seas.

(Old Style.)

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurled;
I said, "I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world."
I stepped aboard, - we sailed so fast, -
The sun shot up from the bourne;
But a dove that perched upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
    O fair dove! O fond dove!
    And dove with the white breast,
    Let me alone, the dream is my own,
    And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I looked in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourned on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
    O last ...

Jean Ingelow

The Barley Fields.

    The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
    Saffron pale, where a star of white
    Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
    Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.

    O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
    The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
    There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep -
    The wind is holding high revel there,

    Singing the song it has often sung -
    Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
    "Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
    And the barley fields are green and gold!"

Jean Blewett

The Long White Seam.

As I came round the harbor buoy,
    The lights began to gleam,
No wave the land-locked water stirred,
    The crags were white as cream;
And I marked my love by candle-light
    Sewing her long white seam.
        It's aye sewing ashore, my dear,
    Watch and steer at sea,
        It's reef and furl, and haul the line,
    Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;
    O sweetly my love sings!
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,
    My soul to meet it springs
As the shining water leaped of old,
    When stirred by angel wings.
        Aye longing to list anew,
    Awake and in my dream,
        But never a song she sang like this,
    Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor ...

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The Fisher's Wife.

A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face.
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat
Holding a child within her arms;
A sweet-faced woman - looking out to sea
With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child,
And this the song she in the sunse...

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A June Night.

Ten o'clock: the broken moon
    Hangs not yet a half hour high,
    Yellow as a shield of brass,
In the dewy air of June,
    Poised between the vaulted sky
    And the ocean's liquid glass.


Earth lies in the shadow still;
    Low black bushes, trees, and lawn
    Night's ambrosial dews absorb;
Through the foliage creeps a thrill,
    Whispering of yon spectral dawn
    And the hidden climbing orb.


Higher, higher, gathering light,
    Veiling with a golden gauze
    All the trembling atmosphere,
See, the rayless disk grows white!
    Hark, the glittering billows pause!

    Faint, far sounds possess the ear.


Elves on such a night as this
    Spin their rings upon the grass;
    On the beach the wate...

Emma Lazarus