It is a dreary day. It is dark and rainy and windy and cold and, well, November.
There is a poem by Robert Frost called "My November Guest" that keeps coming to me. In it he personifies sorrow (specifically, in fact, his own, for he calls her "my sorrow") as a woman who sees remarkable beauty in "these dark days of autumn rain." She thinks he doesn't appreciate what she sees, but he confides in us that he has long known "The love of bare November days / Before the coming of the snow" but hasn't admitted it to her because he likes to hear her praise "The desolate, deserted trees, / The faded earth, the heavy sky."
I have always liked that poem very much, but when I look outside today I am having a hard time seeing anything as beautiful as he claims to have seen. Of course, he had his sorrow with him, so perhaps I am just not sad enough today. A couple more days of this kind of weather, however, and I should be so depressed that the view out my window will appear to be the single most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life.
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