Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.

Hear the gentle poetry of Lucy Maud Montgomery: “Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.” At once tender and profound, these words are more than description of the evening sky. They are a vision of life itself, wrapped in imagery that binds heaven and earth together. In Montgomery’s world, twilight is not a mere fading of the day, but a goddess-like figure who draws her veil across the weary landscape. And when the curtain of night is lowered, it is not without beauty — for she fastens it with the gleam of a single star, a reminder that even in endings, light remains.

In the ancient tongues, such imagery was well beloved. The Greeks spoke of Nyx, the goddess of night, who spread her cloak across the sky, adorned with starlight like jewels. The Hebrews sang in their psalms of the heavens declaring the glory of God, the firmament pinned with constellations that tell stories older than man. Montgomery, inheritor of such tradition, breathed into her line the same timeless truth: that the cycles of the cosmos are not cold mechanics, but sacred dramas, unfolding with grace and majesty.

The curtain of twilight also carries a lesson about transitions. Day does not fall into night with violence, but with gentleness. The curtain is drawn softly, tenderly, until the earth is at rest. How much could we learn from this? Too often, our own endings are full of resistance — we cling to the light, we fight the coming dark. But Montgomery teaches that every ending, like twilight, is but the closing of one stage, pinned always with the promise of new radiance. The star is there to remind us: even when the day ends, hope is not extinguished.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln on the eve of his greatest trial. The nation was divided, war loomed, and twilight descended upon America. Yet in those darkest hours, a glimmer appeared — the enduring belief in freedom and unity. Lincoln, like the star upon the curtain, became the small but steady light guiding his people through shadow. The curtain of night fell heavy, but it was not absolute, for even in despair, a single flame could pin hope into the fabric of history.

The imagery also reflects the rhythm of human life. Childhood is the dawn, adulthood the blazing noon, and old age the twilight. When the curtain of life descends, many fear the dark. Yet those who live with wisdom see that it is not a final extinguishing, but a passage into mystery, adorned with light. Every life, no matter how ordinary, pins at least one star to the sky — an act of kindness, a word of truth, a legacy of love. Thus, even in decline, there is beauty, for twilight does not end with emptiness, but with brilliance.

The lesson, then, is clear: accept endings with grace, and look for the star that pins them with meaning. Do not despair when the curtain falls, whether in daily matters or in great trials, for there will always be light stitched into the dark. Seek it. Notice it. Remember that the star is as much a part of twilight as the shadow. The wise do not mourn the end of day; they stand in awe of the mystery and give thanks for the light that remains.

Practically, take time each evening to step outside and watch the twilight. Let it teach you patience in endings, humility before beauty, and trust in renewal. When you face transitions — the end of a chapter, the close of a relationship, the quiet of old age — breathe deeply and look for the star. Write down the small lights in your day, those things that pin hope to your own curtain of night. In doing so, you will learn to live not in fear of darkness, but in reverence for the light that always accompanies it.

So let Montgomery’s words echo through the soul: “Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.” For life, like the day, is a sacred play of beginnings and endings, and the night, though heavy, is never without its jewel. Embrace the twilight, honor the curtain, and treasure the star — and you will walk with serenity through all the passages of existence.