A friend posted a portion of Robert Frost's poem, November Guest, as her status yesterday. She reminded me that life seasons are like year seasons. Each are beautiful in their own way. Each have their good parts and their not so good parts. When I was younger my favorite seasons were summer and winter-the extremes. At this point in my life I appreciate the balance of spring and fall. The promise of new life in spring. The crisp gorgeousness of fall. As I looked up and read this poem, it reminded me that there is something of beauty even in bleak November and interminably wintery February. I hope you enjoy this bit of Robert Frost.
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 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.
So I tell myself, "Self, how about some November appreciation?"