Explore "My November Guest" by Robert Frost on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 are better for her praise.