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.
We had a debate in poetry today about the significance of "My Sorrow." My professor is adamant on his decision that it's referring to an actual human female. I disagree. It's clearly his depression and the channeling of his dark side that's kicking in with the autumn. Most depression starts in the fall anyway. He's finally finding the beauty in the dark and barren, morbid yet solitude mindset that comes from the season. I connect so much with this poem, especially because lately I've been bumming so hard about not being able to have fall. I miss it. I miss pumpkin picking with my family, drinking cider, and being cold. I miss the dark and scary dusk that eerily changes into night. I miss the trees that used to scare the crap out of me when I was younger. I miss the leaves, I miss walking into a house that was so warm, I miss the inspiration I get with the sunken days.
I have one wish. Will somebody please give me autumn for Thankgiving? I don't get to go home this year. I need to be near the fallen leaves and crisp air. I need to be in the grey.