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Best Famous Lucy Maud Montgomery Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Lucy Maud Montgomery poems. This is a select list of the best famous Lucy Maud Montgomery poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Lucy Maud Montgomery poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Lucy Maud Montgomery poems.

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Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

To My Enemy

 Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy! 

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
I had not scaled such weary heights But that I held thy scorn in fear, And never keenest lure might match The subtle goading of thy sneer.
Thine anger struck from me a fire That purged all dull content away, Our mortal strife to me has been Unflagging spur from day to day.
And thus, while all the world may laud The gifts of love and loyalty, I lay my meed of gratitude Before thy feet, mine enemy!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

By an Autumn Fire

 Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, 
Poignant and keen 
And all the great boughs of the pines between 
It is harping a lone and hungering strain 
To the eldritch weeping of the rain; 
And then to the wild, wet valley flying 
It is seeking, sighing, 
Something lost in the summer olden.
When night was silver and day was golden; But out on the shore the waves are moaning With ancient and never fulfilled desire, And the spirits of all the empty spaces, Of all the dark and haunted places, With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces, Come to the lure of our leaping fire.
But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor From our blithe domain, And drown the whimper of wind and rain With undaunted laughter, echoing long, Cheery old tale and gay old song; Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition, Attained ambition.
Ours is the treasure of tested loving, Friendship that needs no further proving; No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain, Here we have largess of summer in fee­ Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping, At bay the chill of the autumn keeping, While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping In the fairest meadow of memory!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

An Autumn Evening

 Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below 
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow 
And wake among the harps of leafless trees 
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through With silver from the rising moon afar, And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue In the southwest glimmers a great gold star Above the darkening druid glens of fir Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still, And look and listen with a rapt delight, Pausing again and yet again at will To drink the elusive beauty of the night, Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.

More great poems below...

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |


 Genius, like gold and precious stones, 
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.
Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild, incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility, and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.
Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres far above the vulgar world and fills his soul with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.
It is probably on account of this that people who have genius do not pay their board, as a general thing.
Geniuses are very singular.
If you see a young man who has frowsy hair and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress, you may set him down for a genius.
If he sings about the degeneracy of a world which courts vulgar opulence and neglects brains, he is undoubtedly a genius.
If he is too proud to accept assistance, and spurns it with a lordly air at the very same time that he knows he can't make a living to save his life, he is most certainly a genius.
If he hangs on and sticks to poetry, notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him, he is a true genius.
If he throws away every opportunity in life and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot, and finally persists, in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense but not any genius, persists in going up some infamous back alley dying in rags and dirt, he is beyond all question a genius.
But above all things, to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse and then rush off and get booming drunk, is the surest of all the different signs of genius.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

Among the Pines

 Here let us linger at will and delightsomely hearken
Music aeolian of wind in the boughs of pine,
Timbrel of falling waters, sounds all soft and sonorous,
Worshipful litanies sung at a bannered shrine.
Deep let us breathe the ripeness and savor of balsam, Tears that the pines have wept in sorrow sweet, With its aroma comes beguilement of things forgotten, Long-past hopes of the years on tip-toeing feet.
Far in the boskiest glen of this wood is a dream and a silence­ Come, we shall claim them ours ere look we long; A dream that we dreamed and lost, a silence richly hearted, Deep at its lyric core with the soul of a song.
If there be storm, it will thunder a march in the branches, So that our feet may keep true time as we go; If there be rain, it will laugh, it will glisten, and beckon, Calling to us as a friend all lightly and low.
If it be night, the moonlight will wander winsomely with us, If it be hour of dawn, all heaven will bloom, If it be sunset, it's glow will enfold and pursue us.
To the remotest valley of purple gloom.
Lo! the pine wood is a temple where the days meet to worship, Laying their cark and care for the nonce aside, God, who made it, keeps it as a witness to Him forever, Walking in it, as a garden, at eventide.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

Morning along Shore

 Hark, oh hark the elfin laughter
All the little waves along,
As if echoes speeding after
Mocked a merry merman's song! 

All the gulls are out, delighting
In a wild, uncharted quest­
See the first red sunshine smiting
Silver sheen of wing and breast! 

Ho, the sunrise rainbow-hearted
Steals athwart the misty brine,
And the sky where clouds have parted
Is a bowl of amber wine! 

Sweet, its cradle-lilt partaking,
Dreams that hover o'er the sea,
But the lyric of its waking
Is a sweeter thing to me! 

Who would drowze in dull devotion
To his ease when dark is done,
And upon its breast the ocean
Like a jewel wears the sun? 

"Up, forsake a lazy pillow!" 
Calls the sea from cleft and cave,
Ho, for antic wind and billow
When the morn is on the wave!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

November Evening

 Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.
Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; 'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming, Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.
Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.
Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener, Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener; And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging, Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.
Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden Garlanded with her hopes­rather the woman laden With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.
Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places, The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces; Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming, We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

When the Dark Comes Down

 When the dark comes down, oh, the wind is on the sea
With lisping laugh and whimper to the red reef's threnody,
The boats are sailing homeward now across the harbor bar
With many a jest and many a shout from fishing grounds afar.
So furl your sails and take your rest, ye fisher folk so brown, For task and quest are ended when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the landward valleys fill Like brimming cups of purple, and on every landward hill There shines a star of twilight that is watching evermore The low, dim lighted meadows by the long, dim-lighted shore, For there, where vagrant daisies weave the grass a silver crown, The lads and lassies wander when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the children fall asleep, And mothers in the fisher huts their happy vigils keep; There's music in the song they sing and music on the sea, The loving, lingering echoes of the twilight's litany, For toil has folded hands to dream, and care has ceased to frown, And every wave's a lyric when the dark comes down.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

Out oDoors

 There's a gypsy wind across the harvest land,
Let us fare forth with it lightly hand in hand;
Where cloud shadows blow across the sunwarm waste,
And the first red leaves are falling let us haste,
For the waning days are lavish of their stores,
And the joy of life is with us out o' doors! 

Let us roam along the ways of golden rod 
Over uplands where the spicy bracken nod, 
Through the wildwood where the hemlock branches croon 
Their rune-chant of elder days across the noon, 
For the mellow air its pungency outpours, 
And the glory of the year is out o' doors! 

There's a great gray sea beyond us calling far, 
There's a blue tide curling o'er the harbor bar; 
Ho, the breeze that smites us saltly on the lips 
Whistles gaily in the sails of outbound ships; 
Let us send our thoughts with them to fabled shores, 
For the pilgrim mood is on us out o' doors! 

Lo! the world's rejoicing in each spirit thrills,
Strength and gladness are to us upon the hills;
We are one with crimson bough and ancient sea,
Holding all the joy of autumn hours in fee,
Hope within us like a questing bird upsoars,
And there's room for song and laughter out o' doors.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

The Sea to the Shore

 Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ? Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ? Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness, Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ? Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor­ Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight? Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor­ I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow, With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal, A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego! With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset, Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore, And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

At Nightfall

 The dark is coming o'er the world, my playmate,
And the fields where poplars stand are very still,
All our groves of green delight have been invaded,
There are voices quite unknown upon the hill; 

The wind has grown too weary for a comrade,
It is keening in the rushes spent and low,
Let us join our hands and hasten very softly
To the little, olden, friendly path we know.
The stars are laughing at us, O, my playmate, Very, very far away in lonely skies, The trees that were our friends are strangers to us, And the fern is full of whispers and of sighs.
The sounds we hear are not what we may share in, We may not linger where the white moths roam, We must hasten yet more swiftly, little playmate, To the house among the pines that is our home.
The dark is creeping closer yet, my playmate, And the woods seem crowding nearer as we go, Oh, how very, very bold have grown the shadows, They may touch us as they flutter to and fro! The silence is too dreadful for our laughter, The night is very full of strange alarms, But it cannot hurt us now, O, little playmate, One more step and we are safe in mother's arms!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

The Truce of Night

 Lo, it is dark,
Save for the crystal spark
Of a virgin star o'er the purpling lea,
Or the fine, keen, silvery grace of a young
Moon that is hung
O'er the priest-like firs by the sea;
Lo, it is still,
Save for the wind of the hill,
And the luring, primeval sounds that fill
The moist and scented air­
'Tis the truce o' night, away with unrest and care! 

Now we may forget 
Love's fever and hate's fret, 
Forget to-morrow and yesterday; 
And the hopes we buried in musky gloom 
Will come out of their tomb, 
Warm and poignant and gay; 
We may wander wide, 
With only a wish for a guide, 
By heath and pool where the Little Folk bide, 
We may share in fairy mirth, 
And partake once more in the happy thoughts of earth.
Lo, we may rest Here on her cradling breast In the wonderful time of the truce o' night, And sweet things that happened long ago, Softly and slow, Will creep back to us in delight; And our dreams may be Compact of young melody, Just such as under the Eden Tree, 'Mid the seraphim's lullabies, Eve's might have been ere banished from Paradise.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

When the Fishing Boats Go Out

 When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o'er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There's joyance and there's freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves, And sending sparkling kisses o'er the brows of virgin waves, While routed dawn-mists shiver­oh, far and fast they flee, Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea! Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie, Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky­ Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
[Page 35] The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free, There's keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty! Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown, And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze, And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas, Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float, And all the water-world's alive when the fishing boats go out.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

The Poets Thought

 It came to him in rainbow dreams, 
Blent with the wisdom of the sages, 
Of spirit and of passion born; 
In words as lucent as the morn 
He prisoned it, and now it gleams 
A jewel shining through the ages.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

Loves Prayer

 Beloved, this the heart I offer thee 
Is purified from old idolatry, 
From outworn hopes, and from the lingering stain 
Of passion's dregs, by penitential pain.
Take thou it, then, and fill it up for me With thine unstinted love, and it shall be An earthy chalice that is made divine By its red draught of sacramental wine.