A Boy's Will

I think, once all is taken into account, my favorite poet is Robert Frost. His connection to nature, and the metaphors which he so eloquently draws, are familiar to me. Few people understand my take on the world, but when I read his poems that are so richly laden with beautiful language and imagery, I feel assured that someone, somewhere, has understood the things that I see all around me. His words remind me that everything is lovely in some way--even sorrow, even grief--and that is a comforting thing, because the world is filled with sorrow and grief, yet its loveliness remains.

One of my favorite poems was published in Frost's first published book of poetry, A Boy's Will. Here on the first of November, I find this poem quite appropriate in so many ways.

My November Guest

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 walked 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.