| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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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