September 18, 2004
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I think the average [north] American has forgotten about poetry.
I haven't. And here's one from one of my all-time favourites. This man says it like I always want to--every time.
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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.
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.
Comments (8)
Muy Bien, nice poem.
C'est magnifique.
(Why do people always have a compulsion to speak in foreign languages when praising a feat of their own language?)
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
I like the last 2 lines the best.. Thanks for sharing
well you're right, north america has forgotten about poetry. i somehow never liked poetry, but always respected those that did. i think those that like poetry have some greater thing that i dont, and wont ever have.
take care drew
Drew, i have a questionm, are you a truck?
Roses are red, Violets are blue, this is my favorite poem, don't you like it too?
Well, I like it, but then I've been drinking all night.
Thanks for the Frost poem. If you like Frost's work, you might also like Edgar Albert Guest. He was a simple American poet (was known as "The Poet of the People") from the early 1900 until his death in the late 1950's. Despite being a simple poet, some of his work is brilliant. I suggest A Heap O' Living and Just Folks. ~Enjoy~
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