I like this poem, and yet Sorrow is not my November guest. Perhaps one day. Today it is Exuberance. Today my cheeks are flushed as I come in out of the cold wind. Today my hot mug of tea tastes like heaven. Today I am determined to get the deck swept before the snows come. Today the house is snug and warm and there is food to hand. November is life stripped to its essentials with no frippery. Today I am a lucky woman.
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