No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew, No more they reach To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue A whispered speech. No more they part their arms and wreathe them close Again, to shield Some love-full little nest—a dainty house Hid in a field. For them no more the splendour of the storm, The fair delights Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm On summer nights. Their little lives they yield in summer death, And frequently Across the field bereaved their dying breath Is brought to me. A poet who has won a distinct and fixed place in the popular heart and imagination of Canadians is Jean Blewett. Her first volume, _Heart Songs_, appeared in 1897 and immediately won a wide popularity. This was increased by her next volume, _The Cornflower and Other Poems_ (1906). Her Collected Poems were published in 1922. Jean Blewett is essentially a ‘woman’s poet.’ By this is meant that she appeals to the domestic heart and the imagination, that she sings of the joys of home, the ways of children, the love of husband and wife. But Jean Blewett does this in an extraordinary way. She treats homely subjects indeed, but while she treats them in a homely or rather home-like way she does it with a simple and ingratiating sincerity and charm of sentiment and artistry which are quite her own and in the employment of which she is alone in Canada. If her poems deal with homely subjects, her artistry is by no means bourgeois. She rises and falls with the inherent dignity of her subject. But her human treatment of a homely subject never issues in vulgarity, or vivid ‘vaudeville’ verse. As an example of her genuine artistry and dignity of treatment in a high or serious subject we quote her _Quebec_:— Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lives with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of those days and her beloved dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valour of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset’s golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face. When her subject gives her a chance for sweep of imagination and for a pearly beauty of imagery, Jean Blewett rises brilliantly to her theme, as in _What Time the Morning Stars Arise_, a really splendid war poem commemorating the heroic deed of Lieutenant Reginald Warneford, aviator, who unassisted destroyed a German armed Zeppelin, containing 28 men, on June 7th, 1915. We quote the first and last stanzas:—