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Home: Poetry: Robert Frost: My November Guest
| MY NOVEMBER GUEST |
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a poem by Robert Frost
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- 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.
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| "My November Guest" is reprinted from A Boy's Will. Robert Frost. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1915. |
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