| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 123. My November Guest |
| | | By Robert Frost |
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| 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 |
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| 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. | 10 |
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| 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 |
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| 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. | 20 |
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