The Beauty of November

Whenever she's here along with me, my Sorrow,

Considers these dreary fall rainy days

Are as lovely as weeks can be;

She adores the withered, barren tree.

She takes a stroll down the muddy pasture lane.

I'm not going to be able to stay because of her enjoyment.

I'm hesitant to list what she says:

She's relieved that the birds have left.

She's grateful for her plain worsted grey.

Is now silver, with a lingering mist.

The barren, forlorn trees,

The weathered dirt, the ominous sky

The splendours she actually sees,

She believes I don't have a good eye for these.

And it irritates me for a reason.

Not only did I learn something new yesterday, but I also learnt something new today.

Prior to the arrival of the snow,

But it was pointless to tell her that.

And they're better as a result of her compliments.