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 grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees
The faded earth, the heavy sky
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these
And vexes me for reason why
Not yesterday I learned to know
This 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
-Robert Frost
It's clothing of some kind. Perhaps some english lit professor or someone who knows about medieval garments could clue me in.
Cheers!
2006-09-21
04:32:11
·
3 answers
·
asked by
Orinoco
7