MY NOVEMBER GUEST
by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
- Y Sorrow,
when shes here with me,
- Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
- Are beautiful as days can be;
- She loves the bare, the withered tree;
- She walks the sodden pasture lane.
-
- Her pleasure will not let me stay.
- She talks and I am fain to list:
- Shes glad the birds are gone away,
- Shes 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.
"My November Guest" is
reprinted from A Boy's Will. Robert Frost. New York: Henry
Holt and Company, 1915. |
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