Trees in the Mist, Sheila Curzon
Last night I was trying to create the atmosphere of the dreary world outside for a poem I'm writing when I remembered Frost's poem. I went to read it again and thoroughly enjoyed it. Is The Road Not Taken his most famous poem? Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening must come in close second to it. He lived to the great age of 88 and was awarded four Pulitzer Prizes for his work. He recited a poem at JFK's inauguration in 1961.
I was thinking today that I am a mirror of the seasons sometimes in my writing. I suppose we must relay what is happening about us, what is pressing on us and causing impressions, aside from flights of pure imagination which can be difficult. Is the poet addressing himself here or is he talking about a specific person, or?
Anyway here it is...
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.