November is a powerful month, but not my favorite month I have a book of Robert Frost’s poems, and I was eager to read his view of November in a poem entitled “My November Guest.”

My November Guest, By Robert Frost

“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 have 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.”

There are so many different ways to see the world. Frost reminds me again to honor ways that are different than mine, rather than argue them. He saw the beauty in the dark days (eventually.)