The Tuesday Platform

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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 hopes rather 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 home-light is gleaming. 

- Lucy Maud Montgomery

Welcome to the Tuesday Platform, the weekly open stage for sharing poems in the Imaginary Garden. Please link up a poem, old or new, and spend some time this week visiting the offerings of our fellow writers.

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