Well my dear readers, I was reading some poetry, as I sometimes do, by one of my favs, Robert Frost. He has a knack for the fall and winter seasons. As I read more and more of his mental wanderings, I feel as if Frost has an extreme love/hate relationship with fall and winter. At times he finds them to be mysterious and difficult, yet at the same time, beautiful and picturesque. His connection with rural life and rural and dark (seasonally) imagery is just something I can’t help but be drawn towards.
I wanted to share a poem of the season. So dig.
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 grey
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
-Robert Frost
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