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. | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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. | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |