The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  The ocean’s pallid rim,

  Drift fishing schooners — a shadowy fleet —

  Like phantom vessels dim

  That never a shore or a landing greet,

  When the tide goes out.

  The white sands glisten and bum and glow,

  And the rocky reefs are bare;

  The great cloud argosies come and go

  In tranquil deeps of air;

  The sea’s own witchery we may know,

  When the tide goes out.

  A calm has fallen o’er wave and shore —

  The calm of a coast of dreams —

  And silver-pinioned sea-gulls soar

  Where the water pales and creams;

  E’en the sorrowful ocean has hushed its roar,

  When the tide goes out.

  Before Storm

  There’s a grayness over the harbor like fear on the face of a woman,

  The sob of the waves has a sound akin to a woman’s cry,

  And the deeps beyond the bar are moaning with evil presage

  Of a storm that will leap from its lair in that dour north-eastern sky.

  Slowly the pale mists rise, like ghosts of the sea, in the offing,

  Creeping all wan and chilly by headland and sunken reef,

  And a wind is wailing and keening like a lost thing’mid the islands,

  Boding of wreck and tempest, plaining of dolor and grief.

  Swiftly the boats come homeward, over the grim bar crowding,

  Like birds that flee to their shelter in hurry and affright,

  Only the wild gray gulls that love the cloud and the clamor

  Will dare to tempt the ways of the ravening sea to-night.

  But the ship that sailed at the dawning, manned by the lads that love us

  God help and pity her when the storm is loosed on her track!

  Oh women, we pray to-night and keep a vigil of sorrow

  For those we sped at the dawning and may never welcome back!

  The Sandshore In September

  Dim dusk on the sea where a star shines over —

  The night steals across the sand,

  Purply-brooding the shadows hover,

  And by the headland a white-sail rover

  Skims on to the darkening land.

  Far in the west still the hue is glowing

  Of a sunset’s crimson death;

  The troubled tide o’er the bar is flowing

  And vibrant winds are coming and going

  With the salt foam in their breath.

  Slow from the eastward a fog is creeping,

  Spectral and chill and white;

  Soon it will wrap the wide sea sleeping,

  And the sandshore, given o’er to its keeping,

  Will dream and gleam through the night.

  Why need we linger when o’er the meadows

  The glow of our homelight shines?

  Dear, let us leave the sandshore to its shadows

  And hand in hand go across the meadows

  To that love-star in the pines.

  Home From Town

  There, I can draw a free breath!

  I’m clear of the town once more, —

  Clear of its dust and smoke, and deafening rattle and roar,

  How anyone can live all his life in that place beats me!

  One day’s enough for my liking — and now I’m out and free.

  Out in the country road where the air is sweet and dim,

  And somewhere across the fields the frogs are singing a hymn;

  And the moon is getting bright — she was pale’fore the sun went

  down —

  And in an hour wife’ll say,” Your father’s home from town,”

  Hurry’long smart now, Doll. Jack’s waiting at the gate.

  Listening for wheels, and wondering what’s keeping me so late.

  I’ve brought him a brand-new knife, with a corkscrew in it and all;

  He’s been coaxing for one ever since he broke his old one last fall.

  How his eyes will shine! And then, there’s the doll for May,

  And the little work-box for Kate, and a couple of books for Ray,

  —— Always a-reading he is, cut out for a scholar, I guess.

  Well, the boy shall have a chance. And here is the wife’s new dress.

  I got it for a surprise; she said her old one would do.

  But I want to see her look nice — and this is a navy blue.

  She’s as pretty a woman still as I saw in town to-day.

  And not one of the girls back there can hold a candle to May.

  With her little golden curls, and pink on her dimpled face,

  The prettiest flower that grows anywhere about the old place.

  Jog along smarter, Doll — I can see the kitchen light

  A-shining out through the trees — a particular pleasant sight;

  And Jack’s whistling at the gate; I can smell the clover hay,

  —— The boy must be tired if he mowed the big south meadow today,

  And that little white thing there, a-standing close by his side?

  It’s my own little Mayflower, bless her! and of course she wants a ride.

  And Kate and Ray are coming as fast as they can down the lane,

  And wife’s at the kitchen door — I can see her just as plain!

  What a look she’ll give when I show her the brand-new merino gown!

  Down Rover, old dog — be careful. Well, I’m glad to be home from town.

  If I Were Home

  If I were home on those dear green hills,

  In those wide and dewy meadows,

  Where the cattle pastured by lake and stream

  ‘Mid the ever-hurrying shadows;

  Could I see once more the farmhouse old

  And the drowsy sunlight shining

  Through door and casement where, pink with bloom,

  The roses are thickly twining,

  I know full well that this weary pain

  Would leave me and I should be free again

  From the fever’s cruel fetter —

  If only once more my longing eyes

  Might look on the blue of the homeland skies,

  I know I should soon grow better.

  If but once more I might drink the air

  Of the meadows brimmed with clover

  And roam at will through the pastures wide

  Where rhythmic winds blow over;

  Could I but hear in the still of the night

  The patter of raindrops falling,

  The old-time croon of the poplar trees

  Or the cricket’s harvest calling;

  Could I see the dawn on those shadowy hills

  Flame into the day while across the sills

  Its golden light came creeping

  Then I know that my weary eyes would close

  In the perfect rest of a calm repose

  A happy and painless sleeping.

  Could I lie once more’neath the orchard boughs

  Where I know my bees are humming,

  And the whiffs of sweet old-fashioned flowers

  Are ever going and coming;

  Could I stand at dusk in the darkling lane

  And hear the cowbells tinkle,

  When the cows come home in the twilight dim

  And the stars are all a-twinkle;

  Could I wander once more in my woodland nooks

  And hear the call of my full-voiced brooks,

  How hope in my heart would flutter!

  Oh, if I were home in the old-time calm

  Of those quiet valleys their breathing balm

  Would yield me from suffering a glad release

  And fill my heart with a raptured peace

  Too deep for tongue to utter.

  Interlude

  To-day a wind of dream

  Blew down the raucous street...

  I heard a hidden stream

  Laugh somewhere at my feet.

  I felt a mi
st of rain

  Trembling against my face...

  I knew that wind had lain

  In many a haunted place.

  I saw a sea-beach dim

  By many a silver dune,

  Where sandy hollows brim

  With magic of the moon.

  I saw a shadowy ship

  Upon her seaward way,

  And felt upon my lip

  A kiss of yesterday.

  I walked again beside

  The dark enchantress Night

  Until the dawn’s white pride

  Brought back a lost delight.

  O — wind of dream, blow still,

  For I would have it stay...

  That ghostly pressure sweet and chill,

  The kiss of yesterday.

  Last Night In Dreams

  Last night in dreams I went once more

  To my old home beside the sea;

  I saw the sunrise on the shore,

  The harbor whitening mistily;

  Oh, sweet it was to meet again

  The morning coming up the glen!

  I saw the uplands green and wide,

  The pines about the meadow spring,

  The orchard with its shadows pied

  Where early robins waked to sing.

  Oh, sweet once more to hear the trill

  Of glad winds piping on the hill.

  I saw my garden wet with dew,

  Where bloomed the flowers of long ago,

  There red and white the roses grew

  And lilies lifted buds of snow;

  Oh, sweet it was again to tread

  Those ways with blossoms garlanded!

  And when the happy day had gone

  Beyond the meadows far away,

  I saw the twilight creeping on

  In vesper-hush of gold and gray;

  Oh, sweet above the dim hill’s crest

  The first star sparkle in the west!

  And when across the fragrant gloom

  A silver summer moonshine crept

  I saw once more the gable room

  Where weary little children slept;

  Oh, sweet beside its window there

  To kneel again in childhood’s prayer!

  Oh, sweet my dream of morning seas,

  And sweet my dream of twilight star,

  Sweet all those olden memories,

  But of them all the sweetest far

  Was that once more I dropped to rest

  With head upon a mother’s breast.

  Southernwood,

  What is it you have in the heart of your posy, stranger?

  Well, well, if it isn’t a sprig of southernwood!

  From the country, I reckon? They call it out of the fashion,

  But a whiff of its fragrance always does me good,

  And to see a bit of it here in this grimy city street

  ‘Minds me of home and mother and all things good and sweet.

  It grew by the old front door in the homestead garden

  Where we sat in the dusk at the time of stars and dew,

  Just under the lilac-bush by the parlor window,

  Where the breath of honeysuckle and clover meadows blew through,

  With the orchards on either side in their fruitful solitude —

  Oh, it all comes back to me now with the scent of southernwood!

  Mother would have a sprig pinned always about her somewhere,

  Or a bit to hold in her hand as she rested there at one side,

  The roses and pinks were sweet, but she loved it better,

  For she’d planted the roots herself when she came to the farm a bride.

  And we tired boys and girls who sat at her feet

  Felt only the time was dear and mother’s face was sweet.

  Now we’re scattered far and away the wide world over —

  When father and mother are gone the children are swift to roam!

  The hillside farm has passed to the hands of others,

  And strangers dwell in the spot we called our home,

  But the garden old, and the house where the poplars stood,

  Are mine again by the spell of the scent of southernwood.

  The Apple-Picking Time

  When September’s purple asters stay to wreathe October’s crown,

  And the misty wooded hillslopes are red and golden brown,

  When moms are hazy purple and wild geese eastward fly,

  And fiery crimsons linger late along the evening sky,

  When swallows on the bam roofs perch, to chatter of their flight,

  When hints of frost are in the air, and crickets chirp at night,

  Then come the pleasant days we love in autumn’s mellow prime,

  The jolliest days of all the year... the apple-picking time.

  For the laden boughs are bending low o’er all the orchard ways,

  The apples’ cheeks are burning red, and father smiles and says,

  Some sparkling morn, “I think to-day we might as well begin;

  Be smart now boys! You’ll need a week to get those apples in.”

  There are fresh young voices’mong the trees and peals of laughter gay,

  And the ruddy pile on the granary floor grows bigger every day,

  While the tired old Earth a-napping lies in mellow magic light.

  And there are tired hands and happy hearts in the old farmhouse at night:

  For we pick from dawn till the autumn moon shines over the poplar hill,

  And the stars peep down through the orchard boughs and the

  world is hushed and still.

  And when the market apples have been carefully gathered in,

  And every nook and comer’s filled in granary, house and bin,

  The best fun’s still to come when in the orchard on the hill

  We pick the cider apples and cart them to the mill.

  What frolic and what shouting! Those apples need no care;

  Just climb the trees and shake them down in pattering hundreds there.

  It’s fine down Winter’s gleaming hills with arrow’s speed to fly,

  Or wade in some dusk woodland pool when Spring comes wandering by,

  It’s pleasant to listen in Summer hours to the breeze’s wordless rhyme,

  But it’s jollier far just to be alive in the apple-picking time.

  Coiling Up The Hay

  There’s many a thing we like to do, we boys upon the farm,

  And every little duty has its own peculiar charm,

  But I think we’re most delighted when we hear our father say,

  “A shower is coming up, I fear. Come, boys, and coil the hay.”

  The green and sweeping meadows lie wide open to the sun,

  Where crickets chirp, and breezes blow, and frisky shadows run,

  And the long, tangled, new-mown swaths are sweet with the perfume

  That only comes from ripened grass and faded clover bloom.

  Sometimes it’s in the morning when the air is cool and sweet,

  And sometimes in the afternoon beneath the sultry heat,

  But oftener it’s at twilight when the west is rosy red,

  And big white stars are blinking out in tranquil deeps o’erhead.

  With sturdy arms we toss the hay and shape the coils with care,

  And merry voices echo through the golden evening air,

  Till the last field is dotted o’er with haycocks neat and trim,

  And the last lingering light has died across the uplands dim.

  What care we now if summer showers fall in the coming night?

  We’ve done our work with earnest care, and all is snug and tight.

  We may be tired, but welcome rest will follow on the day,

  And it’s the jolliest sort of fun, this coiling up the hay.

  The Gable Window

  It opened on a world of wonder,

  When summer days were sweet and long,

  A world of light, a world of splendor,

  A world of song
.

  ’Twas there I passed my hours of dreaming,

  ’Twas there I knelt at night to pray;

  And, when the rose-lit dawn was streaming

  Across the day,

  I bent from it to catch the glory

  Of all those radiant silver skies —

  A resurrection allegory

  For human eyes!

  The summer raindrops on it beating,

  The swallows clinging’ neath the eaves,

  The wayward shadows by it fleeting,

  The whispering leaves;

  The birds that passed in joyous vagrance,

  The echoes of the golden moon,

  The drifting in of subtle fragrance,

  The wind’s low croon;

  Held each a message and a token

  In every hour of day and night;

  A meaning wordless and unspoken,

  Yet read aright.

  I looked from it o’er bloomy meadows,

  Where idle breezes lost their way,

  To solemn hills, whose purple shadows

  About them lay.

  I saw the sunshine stream in splendor

  O’er heaven’s utmost azure bars,

  At eve the radiance, pure and tender,

  Of white-browed stars.

  I carried there my childish sorrows,

  I wept my little griefs away;

  I pictured there my glad to-morrows

  In bright array.

  The airy dreams of child and maiden

  Hang round that gable window still,

  As cling the vines, green and leaf-laden,

  About the sill.

  And though I lean no longer from it,

  To gaze with loving reverent eyes,

  On clouds and amethystine summit,

  And star-sown skies.

  The lessons at its casement taught me,

  My life with rich fruition fill;

  The rapture and the peace they brought me

  Are with me still!

  Grandmother’s Garden

  ’Twas the dearest spot that my childhood knew,

  That garden old where the roses grew

  All pink and dewy with twinkling gems;

  And lilies bent on their slender stems

  To waft on the air their rich perfume

  Blent with the breath of sweet clover bloom,

  And the lilacs down by the sagging gate

  In springtime days kept their purple state.

  The light came down through the apple trees

  That were pink with blossoms and gay with bees,