A
poem by Robert Frost.
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 grey
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.
I don't know--nor do I care--what hidden meaning there is in the poem. As I stopped being a Junior Literary Critic decades ago, I never advanced to Senior Literary Critic. All I know is that Robert Frost captures November in New England--and other places--very well. Every time I read the poem, I see pictures in my mind from past Novembers, and say to myself, "This is November."
ReplyDeleteFrom inside a school bus, I see wet November. I see ground fog. I see walking home in the woods after sundown. November is between the faded glory of fall leaf change, and the chill, the death of winter. Yet there is beauty in November, in rain-drenched brown leaves on the ground.
I plan on a post soon about literary critics. You will probably like it.
ReplyDeleteNovember on the plains ... is the time of preparation. The harvest is over, everything is in the barn, and the winter work for a last plowing of the soil, putting manure in the ground if it is used, repairing all the equipment, that gets done now. The days grow short, and the first frost has probably come (but not the first freeze, always, down here.) True winter is approaching, and much needs to be accomplished. South of where I live, the cotton has yet to open. Their harvest will be in December and January.
ReplyDeleteToday? Cold, steady rain after a morning of storms. The leaves drip chilly water, and everything sags, tired and wet. It looks like a proper autumn. The berries on the hawthorn glow against the grey day.
LittleRed1
Thanks for painting that beautiful picture.
DeleteFrost is brilliant at connecting the human heart with landscapes and seasons and neighbors, good and questionable.
ReplyDelete