I ran across a line from a poem today, and it was just so lovely that I googled it to find the rest of the poem. I had not heard this one before, that I recall, even though I love many of his other poems.
Not long ago, I read several mini bios on Robert Frost and found his life to be interesting. He was often touched with terribly tragic events. I get a sense of artistic melancholy when I read his work.
Even though it is January, today is so very November. Not too cold, but everything is stark and grey. The sky is heavy and the air damp. And, this poem just seemed to fit.
My November Guest
by 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 walks 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 grey
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.
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