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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 One Hated

 Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder,
Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate,
I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful,
Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great.
Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss impassioned, Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap, And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging, As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep.
Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging, Twined with the fibres of life, blent with body and soul, But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness Had it not missed the way­strange missing and sad!­to its goal.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

My Longshore Lass

 Far in the mellow western sky,
Above the restless harbor bar,
A beacon on the coast of night,
Shines out a calm, white evening star;
But your deep eyes, my 'longshore lass,
Are brighter, clearer far.
The glory of the sunset past Still gleams upon the water there, But all its splendor cannot match The wind-blown brightness of your hair; Not any sea-maid's floating locks Of gold are half so fair.
The waves are whispering to the sands With murmurs as of elfin glee; But your low laughter, 'longshore lass, Is like a sea-harp's melody, And the vibrant tones of your tender voice Are sweeter far to me.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |


 I walked to-day, but not alone,
Adown a windy, sea-girt lea,
For memory, spendthrift of her charm,
Peopled the silent lands for me.
The faces of old comradeship In golden youth were round my way, And in the keening wind I heard The songs of many an orient day.
And to me called, from out the pines And woven grasses, voices dear, As if from elfin lips should fall The mimicked tones of yesteryear.
Old laughter echoed o'er the leas And love-lipped dreams the past had kept, From wayside blooms like honeyed bees To company my wanderings crept.
And so I walked, but not alone, Right glad companionship had I, On that gray meadow waste between Dim-litten sea and winnowed sky.

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Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Farewell

 Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage

Gone, gone, -- sold and gone 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings Where the noisome insect stings Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air; Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone To the rice-swamp dank and lone There no mother's eye is near them, There no mother's ear can hear them; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash Shall a mother's kindness bless them Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go Faint with toil, and racked with pain To their cheerless homes again, There no brother's voice shall greet them There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play; From the cool sprmg where they drank; Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there; Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone; Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er And the fetter galls no more! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone; From Virginia's hills and waters Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone; By the holy love He beareth; By the bruised reed He spareth; Oh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gone, -- sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters; Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |


 From vales of dawn hath Day pursued the Night
Who mocking fled, swift-sandalled, to the west,
Nor ever lingered in her wayward flight
With dusk-eyed glance to recompense his quest,
But over crocus hills and meadows gray
Sped fleetly on her way.
Now when the Day, shorn of his failing strength, Hath fallen spent before the sunset bars, The fair, wild Night, with pity touched at length, Crowned with her chaplet of out-blossoming stars, Creeps back repentantly upon her way To kiss the dying Day.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Two Loves

 One said; "Lo, I would walk hand-clasped with thee
Adown the ways of joy and sunlit slopes
Of earthly song in happiest vagrancy
To pluck the blossom of a thousand hopes.
Let us together drain the wide world's cup With gladness brimméd up!" And one said, "I would pray to go with thee When sorrow claims thee; I would fence thy heart With mine against all anguish; I would be The comforter and healer of thy smart; And I would count it all the wide world's gain To spare or share thy pain!"

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 | |

Spring Song

 THE air was full of sun and birds,
The fresh air sparkled clearly.
Remembrance wakened in my heart And I knew I loved her dearly.
The fallows and the leafless trees And all my spirit tingled.
My earliest thought of love, and Spring's First puff of perfume mingled.
In my still heart the thoughts awoke, Came lone by lone together - Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love A mere affair of weather?

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

In Port

 Last, to the chamber where I lie 
My fearful footsteps patter nigh, 
And come out from the cold and gloom 
Into my warm and cheerful room.
There, safe arrived, we turn about To keep the coming shadows out, And close the happy door at last On all the perils that we past.
Then, when mamma goes by to bed, She shall come in with tip-toe tread, And see me lying warm and fast And in the land of Nod at last.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

In the Days of the Golden Rod

 Across the meadow in brooding shadow
I walk to drink of the autumn's wine­
The charm of story, the artist's glory,
To-day on these silvering hills is mine;
On height, in hollow, where'er I follow,
By mellow hillside and searing sod,
Its plumes uplifting, in light winds drifting,
I see the glimmer of golden-rod.
In this latest comer the vanished summer Has left its sunshine the world to cheer, And bids us remember in late September What beauty mates with the passing year.
The days that are fleetest are still the sweetest, And life is near to the heart of God, And the peace of heaven to earth is given In this wonderful time of the golden-rod.

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.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |


 I smiled with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead,
You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet;
"They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said,
"Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!" 

I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers,
But even that white silence could bring me no belief:
"She lies in maiden sleep," I said.
"and in the youngling hours Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief.
" But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place.
And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead! .
And you came never to me with your little gypsy face, Your lips and hands of welcome, I knew that you were dead!

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 | |

The Wind

 O, wind! what saw you in the South,
In lilied meadows fair and far? 
I saw a lover kiss his lass
New-won beneath the evening star.
O, wind! what saw you in the West Of passing sweet that wooed your stay? I saw a mother kneeling by The cradle where her first-born lay.
O, wind! what saw you in the North That you shall dream of evermore? I saw a maiden keeping tryst Upon a gray and haunted shore.
O, wind! what saw you in the East That still of ancient dole you croon? I saw a wan wreck on the waves And a dead face beneath the moon.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Wood Pool

 Here is a voice that soundeth low and far
And lyric­voice of wind among the pines,
Where the untroubled, glimmering waters are,
And sunlight seldom shines.
Elusive shadows linger shyly here, And wood-flowers blow, like pale, sweet spirit-bloom, And white, slim birches whisper, mirrored clear In the pool's lucent gloom.
Here Pan might pipe, or wandering dryad kneel To view her loveliness beside the brim, Or laughing wood-nymphs from the byways steal To dance around its rim.
'Tis such a witching spot as might beseem A seeker for young friendship's trysting place, Or lover yielding to the immortal dream Of one beloved face.