A Poem for a Thursday #244

I love Robert Frost’s poetry. He does such a wonderful job describing nature and the landscape. I have featured Frost a few times before but I am always happy to find an excuse to use one of his poems. I scrolled through and saw the title and knew I had found today’s poem.

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 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 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.

My November Guest
Robert Frost