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Best Famous Lucy Maud Montgomery Poems

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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, 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

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

The Seeker

 I sought for my happiness over the world,
Oh, eager and far was my quest;
I sought it on mountain and desert and sea,
I asked it of east and of west.
I sought it in beautiful cities of men, On shores that were sunny and blue, And laughter and lyric and pleasure were mine In palaces wondrous to view; Oh, the world gave me much to my plea and my prayer But never I found aught of happiness there! Then I took my way back to a valley of old And a little brown house by a rill, Where the winds piped all day in the sentinel firs That guarded the crest of the hill; I went by the path that my childhood had known Through the bracken and up by the glen, And I paused at the gate of the garden to drink The scent of sweet-briar again; The homelight shone out through the dusk as of yore And happiness waited for me at the door!
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

A Day in the Open

 Ho, a day
Whereon we may up and away,
With a fetterless wind that is out on the downs,
And there piping a call to the fallow and shore,
Where the sea evermore
Surgeth over the gray reef, and drowns
The fierce rocks with white foam;
It is ours with untired feet to roam
Where the pines in green gloom of wide vales make their murmuring home,
Or the pools that the sunlight hath kissed
Mirror back a blue sky that is winnowed of cloud and of mist! 

Ho, a day
Whereon we may up and away
Through the orient distances hazy and pied,
Hand in hand with the gypsying breezes that blow
Here and there, to and fro,
O'er the meadows all rosy and wide,
Where a lyric of flowers
Is sweet-sung to the frolicking hours,
And the merry buds letter the foot-steps of tip-toeing showers;
We may climb where the steep is beset
With a turbulent waterfall, loving to clamor and fret! 

Ho, a day
Whereon we may up and away
To the year that is holding her cup of wild wine;
If we drink we shall be as the gods of the wold
In the blithe days of old
Elate with a laughter divine;
Yea, and then we shall know
The rare magic of solitude so
We shall nevermore wish its delight and its dreams to forego,
And our blood will upstir and upleap
With a fellowship splendid, a gladness impassioned and deep!