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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE HITS AND RUNS by CARL SANDBURG WHAT DOES A WOMAN WANT? by KAREN SWENSON MOUNTAIN WATER by SARA TEASDALE NEEDLE THREADER IN NEED OF A NEEDLE by DARA WIER THRENODY FOR A BROWN GIRL by COUNTEE CULLEN |