|
|
|
My November Guest by Robert Frost
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. |
5 |
| |
|
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. |
10 |
| |
| 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. |
15 |
| |
| 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. | | | |
| I remember a day. It was a good day as much as days can be compared to one another. I was standing on stage reciting Shakespeare. My audience was made up of One and that made all the difference. My stage, as I call it, was a fallen oak tree and my lighting was the twilight of the Autumn sun. One was a young girl that inspired me to conjure my Muse forth. I was energetically reciting "Romeo and Juliet's balcony scene. (I know Shakespeare didn't actually say balcony but that is how it is recollected best.) I performed this scene so One could comprehend their love and therefore the tragedy it became. So she could have a larger grasp of how the world can be her stage and not another's play. I poured my essence into this impromtu recital and she did grasp an individual meaning. She felt their wildfire love and the poisonous death and death all over again. But then the moment was gone as the Autum sun fell away. And the days and the years went by with only a wink of rememberance. And I think One was really me trying to save myself. | | |
| Shakespeare's Sonnet CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. | | |
|
