My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn
rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Robert
Frost
I have always loved
this poem. It haunted me when I lived with maple trees in the back yard and
watched the leaves fall in late October; it followed me West to this cloudy, misty land where I live now.
November can be a hard month as the darkness closes in, but, when I am outside,
walking in the woods, she praises the world just as she did for Robert Frost one
hundred years ago.
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Sunday, November 4, 2018
November Days
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lovely poem, thanks for sharing.
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