My November Guest, by Robert Frost

I realise I’ve posted a few poems lately—sorry for those who aren’t so into this. But I thought I’d post one more I came across this morning, by Robert Frost, called “My November Guest”. It is, I think, a poem about what we might now call Seasonal Affective Disorder, though as those who have read my essay on Sadness (see essays page) will probably guess, I feel we need to say more (though not less) than this. Frost speaks of his sorrow, who comes in November, and teaches him to see the world differently. I feel there is too much embrace of sorrow here (though I’m still not sure about how the last stanza affects this judgment); but it’s a beautiful and sad and interesting poem.

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 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 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.