The Message - Poem by Jean Blewett
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!'
Comments about The Message by Jean Blewett
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl