I spoke with TSO yesterday and nearly wept at his voice, so homesick for the place and for my other friends there too, and for times gone; the uniqueness of the place. I am looking for the Farm in our autumn here, and though not finding it entirely, am contenting myself in the brilliance of the crisp colors, the blustery days, the painfully beautiful sunrises, and the most splendid and silvery moons.
|See that wisp of a moon?|
"My November Guest"
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 walked 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 gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
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.
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.