Frost

I didnt get a chance to post this nine days ago, while it was still November, but I love this poem far too much to wait 'till November next to put it on my blog. Oh, and yes, I do read poetry every now and then, hopefully more during my holiday break. Obviously poetry, just like music, is only really truly good if the reader can apply it to themselves, and, for me, such is the case with this piece by Robert Frost. Enjoy.

My November Guest

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 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 were better for her praise.

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