The Way To Dreamland

With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden
    Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss;
I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting
    As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.

Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper,
    List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this;
Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling,
    As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.

Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals,
Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace, jean    Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
    Glad to-days and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?

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 Lake Shore Road.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Janet.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

A Hint.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Strength.

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.

Comfort In The Night.

She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray
    Till she beheld the everlasting gate:
    And she climbed up to it to long, and wait,
Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay
Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray
    That it might open to her desolate.
    And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate
Crying prevailed. A little little way
It opened: there fell out a thread of light,
    And she saw wingèd wonders move within;
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant
To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night
    Shall one day certainly an entrance win;"
Then the gate closed and she awoke content.

Jean Ingelow

In The Nursery.

Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?'
'Where? O well, once I went into a deep
Mine, father told of, and a cross man said
He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread.
I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near.
She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'

'Was it like mother's boudoir?'

        'Grander far,
Gold chairs and things - all over diamonds - Ah!'

'You're sure it was the Queen?'
        'Of course, a crown
Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.'

'I went to heaven last night.'

        'O Lily, no,
How could you?'

    'Yes I did, they told me so,
And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue
Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.'
'What was it like?'

    'A kind of - I can...

Jean Ingelow

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

The Isle Of Sleep.

In those dark mornings, deep in June,
    When brooding birds stir in the nest,
And heavy dews slip down the leaves,
    And drop into the rose's breast,
I woke and looked into the east,
    And saw no sign of coming day,
The pale cold morning rolled in mist,
    Slept on the hill-tops far away.

My window looked into the dawn,
    The slumbering dawn that was so nigh,
The shadow of the hills was drawn
    In waving lines against the sky.
But warmer hues began to tip
    The edges of the mountain cloud
And morning's rosy cheek and lip
    Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.

I turned and gazed into the west,
    The river murmured in my ear
'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest,
    Another day of toil is here.'

...

Kate Seymour Maclean

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

A Sunset Fantasy

Spellbound by a sweet fantasy
At evenglow I stand
Beside an opaline strange sea
That rings a sunset land.

The rich lights fade out one by one,
And, like a peony
Drowning in wine, the crimson sun
Sinks down in that strange sea.

His wake across the ocean-floor
In a long glory lies,
Like a gold wave-way to the shore
Of some sea paradise.

My dream flies after him, and I
Am in another land;
The sun sets in another sky,
And we sit hand in hand.

Gray eyes look into mine; such eyes
I think the angels are,
Soft as the soft light in the skies
When shines the morning star,

And tremulous as morn, when thin
Gold lights begin to glow,
Revealing the bright soul within
As dawn the sun below.

So, hand...

Victor James Daley