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.
And ends with the verse that comes to me each year at this time:
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.
The stuff in between the first and the last verse is pretty good, too.”