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.