Two June Nights.

    A red rose in my lady's hair,
    A white rose in her fingers,
    A wild bird singing low, somewhere,
    A song that pulses, lingers.
    The sound of dancing and of mirth,
    The fiddle's merry chiming,
    A smell of earth, of fresh, warm earth,
    And honeysuckle climbing;
    My lady near, yet far away -
    Ah, lonely June of yesterday!

    A big white night of velvet sky,
    And Milky Way a-gleaming,
    The fragrant blue smoke drifting by
    From camp-fire brightly beaming;
    The stillness of the Northland far -
    God's solitudes of splendor -
    My road a trail, my chart a star.
    Wind, 'mong the balsams slender,
    Sing low: O glad June of to-day,
    My lady's near, though far away!

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

In Sunflower Time.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Strength.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

When Paganini Plays.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Chrysanthemum's Court.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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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
    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

June Longings.

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown
Light vapors white, like thistle-down,
That from their softened silver heaps opaque
Scatter delicate flake by flake,
Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving
Forms of fancies past believing,
And, with fantastic show of mute despair,
As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,
Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.

All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:
Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon
Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,
Far and faint as a fairy spirit!
Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,
Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,
A frustrate passion haunts me evermore
For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.
O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?

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Youth And June.

    I was your lover long ago, sweet June,
    Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still,
    And follow gladly to the wondrous tune
    You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill.
    I am your lover still - to me you seem
    To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead -
    The brightness and the beauty of the dream
    We dreamed in youth - to hold the tears we shed,
    The laughter of our lips - the faith that lies
    Back in that season dear to every heart,
    Life's springtime, when God's earth and God's blue skies
    Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.

Jean Blewett

June Night In Washington.

The scent of honeysuckle,
Drugging the twilight
With its sweet opiate of lovers' dreams!
The last red glow of the setting sun
On the red brick wall
Of the neighboring house,
And the scramble of red roses over it!

Slowly, slowly
The night smokes up from the city to the stars,
The faint foreshadowed stars;
The smouldering night
Breathes upward like the breath
Of a woman asleep
With dim breast rising and falling
And a smile of delicate dreams.

Softly, softly
The wind comes into the garden,
Like a lover that fears lest he waken his love,
And his hands drip with the scent of the roses
And his locks weep with the opiate odor of honeysuckle.
Sighing, sighing
As a lover that yearns for the lips of his love,
In a torment of bli...

Bliss Carman

A Night In June

I.

White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk
That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade
The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
And night a witching spell at whose command
One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep
The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

II.

There where they part, the porch's steps are strewn
With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
A...

Madison Julius Cawein

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