Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together, <br />With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather, <br />Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow, <br />Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow. <br /> <br />Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing <br />Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; <br />'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming, <br />Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming. <br /> <br />Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding <br />Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding <br />Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, <br />Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping. <br /> <br />Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener, <br />Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener; <br />And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging, <br />Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing. <br /> <br />Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden <br />Garlanded with her hopesrather the woman laden <br />With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, <br />Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving. <br /> <br />Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places, <br />The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces; <br />Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming, <br />We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.<br /><br />Lucy Maud Montgomery<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-evening/
