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27 lines
768 B
27 lines
768 B
TrackingWriters.
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= "My November Guest" =
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My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
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Thinks these dark days of Autumn rain
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Are beautiful as days can be;
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She loves the bare, the withered tree;
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She walks the sodden pasture lane.
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Her Pleasure will not let me stay.
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She talks and I am fain to list:
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She's glad the birds are gone away,
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She's glad her simple worsted gray
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Is silver now with clinging mist.
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The desolate, deserted trees,
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The faded earth, the heavy sky,
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The beauties she so truly sees,
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She thinks I have no eye for these,
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And vexes me for reason why.
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Not yesterday I learned to know
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The loe of bare November days
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before the coming of the snow,
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But it were vain to tell her so,
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And they are better for her praise.
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