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.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment