My November Guest by Robert Frost
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,Thinks these dark days of autumn rainAre 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 grayIs 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 knowThe love of bare November daysBefore the coming of the snow,But it were vain to tell her so,And they are better for her praise.
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