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
Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far
Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green
'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward,
Caring for naught save the charm, elusive
and swift, of the gloaming.
Watchful and stirless the fields as if not
Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their
broad bosoms folding
Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly
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
Beautiful is the year, but not as the
Garlanded with her hopes rather the
With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won
Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of
praise and thanksgiving.
Gently the dark comes down over the wild,
The whispering glens in the hills, the open,
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.