Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
My November Guest
By Robert Frost
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.
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 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.
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.