My
November Guest
Robert Frost
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].
