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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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