Get Your Premium Membership

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.

Search and read the best famous Lucy Maud Montgomery poems, articles about Lucy Maud Montgomery poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Lucy Maud Montgomery poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Genius

 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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

The Watchman

 My Claudia, it is long since we have met, 
So kissed, so held each other heart to heart! 
I thought to greet thee as a conqueror comes, 
Bearing the trophies of his prowess home, 
But Jove hath willed it should be otherwise­
Jove, say I? Nay, some mightier stranger-god 
Who thus hath laid his heavy hand on me, 
No victor, Claudia, but a broken man 
Who seeks to hide his weakness in thy love. 

How beautiful thou art! The years have brought 
An added splendor to thy loveliness, 
With passion of dark eye and lip rose-red 
Struggling between its dimple and its pride. 
And yet there is somewhat that glooms between 
Thy love and mine; come, girdle me about 
With thy true arms, and pillow on thy breast 
This aching and bewildered head of mine; 
Here, where the fountain glitters in the sun 
Among the saffron lilies, I will tell­
If so that words will answer my desire­
The shameful fate that hath befallen me. 

Down in Jerusalem they slew a man, 
Or god­it may be that he was a god­
Those mad, wild Jews whom Pontius Pilate rules. 
Thou knowest Pilate, Claudia­ -- a vain man,
Too weak to govern such a howling horde
As those same Jews. This man they crucified.
I knew nought of him­had not heard his name
Until the day they dragged him to his death;
Then all tongues wagged about him and his deeds;
Some said that he had claimed to be their King,
Some that he had blasphemed their deity
'Twas certain he was poor and meanly born,
No warrior he, nor hero; and he taught
Doctrines that surely would upset the world;
And so they killed him to be rid of him­
Wise, very wise, if he were only man,
Not quite so wise if he were half a god! 

I know that strange things happened when he died­
There was a darkness and an agony,
And some were vastly frightened­not so I!
What cared I if that mob of reeking Jews
Had brought a nameless curse upon their heads ?
I had no part in that blood-guiltiness.
At least he died; and some few friends of his­
I think he had not very many friends­
Took him and laid him in a garden tomb.
A watch was set about the sepulchre,
Lest these, his friends, should hide him and proclaim
That he had risen as he had fore-told.
Laugh not, my Claudia. I laughed when I heard
The prophecy. I would I had not laughed! 

I, Maximus, was chosen for the guard
With all my trusty fellows. Pilate knew
I was a man who had no foolish heart
Of softness all unworthy of a man!
My eyes had looked upon a tortured slave
As on a beetle crushed beneath my tread;
I gloried in the splendid strife of war,
Lusting for conquest; I had won the praise
Of our stern general on a scarlet field;
Red in my veins the warrior passion ran,
For I had sprung from heroes, Roman born! 

That second night we watched before the tomb;
My men were merry; on the velvet turf,
Bestarred with early blossoms of the Spring,
They diced with jest and laughter; all around
The moonlight washed us like a silver lake,
Save where that silent, sealéd sepulchre
Was hung with shadow as a purple pall.
A faint wind stirred among the olive boughs­
Methinks I hear the sighing of that wind
In all sounds since, it was so dumbly sad;
But as the night wore on it died away
And all was deadly stillness; Claudia,
That stillness was most awful, as if some
Great heart had broken and so ceased to beat!
I thought of many things, but found no joy
In any thought, even the thought of thee;
The moon waned in the west and sickly grew 
Her light sucked from her in the breaking dawn­
Never was dawn so welcome as that pale, 
Faint glimmer in the cloudless, brooding sky! 

Claudia, how may I tell what came to pass? 
I have been mocked at when I told the tale 
For a crazed dreamer punished by the gods 
Because he slept on guard; but mock not thou! 
I could not bear it if thy lips should mock 
The vision dread of that Judean morn. 

Sudden the pallid east was all aflame 
With radiance that beat upon our eyes 
As from noonday sun; and then we saw 
Two shapes that were as the immortal gods 
Standing before the tomb; around me fell 
My men as dead; but I, though through my veins 
Ran a cold tremor never known before, 
Withstood the shock and saw one shining shape 
Roll back the stone; the whole world seemed ablaze, 
And through the garden came a rushing wind 
Thundering a paeon as of victory. 

Then that dead man came forth! Oh, Claudia, 
If thou coulds't but have seen the face of him! 
Never was such a conqueror! Yet no pride 
Was in it­nought but love and tenderness, 
Such as we Romans scoff at; and his eyes 
Bespake him royal. Oh, my Claudia, 
Surely he was no Jew but very god! 

Then he looked full upon me. I had borne 
Much staunchly, but that look I could not bear! 
What man may front a god and live? I fell 
Prone, as if stricken by a thunderbolt; 
And, though I died not, somewhat of me died
That made me man. When my long stupor passed 
I was no longer Maximus­I was 
A weakling with a piteous woman-soul, 
All strength and pride, joy and ambition gone­
My Claudia, dare I tell thee what foul curse 
Is mine because I looked upon a god? 

I care no more for glory; all desire
For conquest and for strife is gone from me,
All eagerness for war; I only care
To help and heal bruised beings, and to give
Some comfort to the weak and suffering.
I cannot even hate those Jews; my lips
Speak harshly of them, but within my heart
I feel a strange compassion; and I love
All creatures, to the vilest of the slaves
Who seem to me as brothers! Claudia,
Scorn me not for this weakness; it will pass­
Surely 'twill pass in time and I shall be
Maximus strong and valiant once again,
Forgetting that slain god! and yet­and yet­
He looked as one who could not be forgot!


Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Companioned

 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.
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

The Exile

 We told her that her far off shore was bleak and dour to view,
And that her sky was dull and mirk while ours was smiling blue.
She only sighed in answer, "It is even as ye say,
But oh, the ragged splendor when the sun bursts through the gray!" 

We brought her dew-wet roses from our fairest summer bowers,
We bade her drink their fragrance, we heaped her lap with flowers;
She only said, with eyes that yearned, "Oh, if ye might have brought
The pale, unscented blossoms by my father's lowly cot!" 

We bade her listen to the birds that sang so madly sweet,
The lyric of the laughing stream that dimpled at our feet;
"But, O," she cried, "I weary for the music wild that stirs
When keens the mournful western wind among my native firs!" 

We told her she had faithful friends and loyal hearts anear,
We prayed her take the fresher loves, we prayed her be of cheer;
"Oh, ye are kind and true," she wept, "but woe's me for the grace
Of tenderness that shines upon my mother's wrinkled face!"
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

My Legacy

 My friend has gone away from me 
From shadow into perfect light, 
But leaving a sweet legacy. 

My heart shall hold it long in fee­
A grand ideal, calm and bright,
A song of hope for ministry, 

A faith of unstained purity, 
A thought of beauty for delight­
These did my friend bequeath to me; 

And, more than even these can be, 
The worthy pattern of a white, 
Unmarred life lived most graciously. 

Dear comrade, loyal thanks to thee 
Who now hath fared beyond my sight, 
My friend has gone away from me, 
But leaving a sweet legacy.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry