Monday, November 14, 2011

On A November Day

 "My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
    Thinks these dark days of autumn rain 
Are beautiful as they 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 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. . ."

-----from "My November Guest," 
                         by Robert Frost

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