my november guest

Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when he's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
He loves the bare, the withered tree;
he walks the sodden pasture lane.

His pleasure will not let me stay.
He talks and I am fain to list:
He's glad the birds are gone away,
He's glad his simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

 

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties he so truly sees,
He 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 him so,
And they are better for his praise.