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.

Herpleasure will not let me stay
She talks and I  am fair to list:
She’s glad the birds have gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate deserted tree’s,
The faded earth, the heavy sky.
The beauties she so truly see’s
She thinks I have no eyes for these,
And vexes me for reasons 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.

Robert Frost.