My November Guest

Hey everyone,
It’s been bugging me that I didn’t include a Robert Frost quotation with all that “autumn talk” in my last post. An obvious choice would be something from “The Road not Taken”, but I couldn’t really find something that I really wanted to share.

So, consider this like an appendix or something to the last post. I’m just going to quote the entire poem. It’s taken from my dog-eared copy of “The Complete Robert Frost” which someone donated years ago and I have just kept in my office as a comfort. This may in fact be the first time I’ve ever opened it. I knew that day would come. If I get any angry “cease and desist” letters from the Frost estate, I’ll take it down.

He actually mentions November in it, but I think it fits nicely into our them. Do you think he’s talking about Depression here? Or does he have an actual lady friend? Maybe this blog will turn into a literary criticism forum. I’m sure that’s the way we’ll grow the numbers, right?

Anyway, here’s the whole poem. Enjoy, or whatever you’re supposed to do with poetry. Absorb it, experience it, ignore it. It’s up to you.


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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