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 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.
Robert Frost
Oh! who is there of us that has not felt
The sad decadence of the failing year,
And marked the lesson still with grief and fear
Writ in the rolled leaf and widely dealt?
When now no longer burns yon woodland belt
Bright with disease; no tree in glowing death
Leans forth a cheek of flame to fade and melt
In the warm current of the west wind’s breath;
Nor yet through low blue mist on slope and plain
Droops the red sunlight in a dream of day;
But from that lull the winds of change have burst
And dashed the drowsy leaf with shattering rain,
And swung the groves, and roared, and wreaked their worst
Till all the world is harsh and cold and gray.
Frederick Goddard Tuckerman

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