A few days ago I found this poem hanging out on my sweet friend Anna D’s Facebook page so I borrowed it to share with you all this week. In the States we celebrate Thanksgiving this thursday but rather than try to find something “Thanksgiving-y” I decided that Robert Frost pretty much nailed the frame of mind I’ve been inhabiting lately.
So, for your consideration…
Robert Frost (1874–1963)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.