This poem was something of a revelation to me. I discovered it sometime in august of 2014, when summer was still in full swing, and yet, as I eagerly awaited its end, something drew me towards a book of winter landscapes, that is to say, a book of Robert Frost. I just knew two things about the man – one was the poem about the famous two roads in a yellow wood, the other was that he had a cool name. So I impulsively ordered the book, briefly forgot about it until it arrived, and when it did I immediately skimmed through the first pages. And at least in my version, My November Guest is on page six. I'm now reminded of something the pious often talk about, namely the idea that when they present a person with a holy book, they can immediately tell within the first pages whether or not that person will believe. It's almost instinctive, it's something that bypasses all reason, the book just speaks to us or it doesn't. For me that rarely happens but it did when reading Robert Frost. This particular poem struck me right away, indeed, I could say it spoke to me, though such a thing would best remain unsaid. It's a cliché and it's almost a bit of hubris, yet some clichés are true and proper hubris would be assuming the poem would never speak to anyone else. Thus, at the risk of stumbling on that arrogance, I can say that those very first pages of Robert Frost converted me, and I knew right then and there that I was reading a book that I would read many times over.
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.
I'm not quite sure if the poem is a one-sided conversation with the poet's Sorrow about some illusive she or if the Sorrow and the she are one and the same. I don't know and don't particularly care to find out, but I for one take the latter interpretation. Frost's sadness and melancholy are thereby captured as a kind of fleeting companion in the sense that when she is with him, that is to say, when sadness hits, as it often did throughout Frost's unfortunate life, those dark, ugly days of cold and rain were what he perhaps regarded as true beauty. The naked trees, made crooked, frail and spooky by the cold winds are then seen as objects of great love and appreciation, and the sodden roads, quite the nuisance for commuters, become the path whereon the Sorrow's muddy boots plod down the lane, to quote from Vashti Bunyan who somewhat reminds me of Frost... It is thus striking to see this inversion, actually, for me it was more than striking, it was a revelation. Seasons come and go, every little one knows that, but I've always seen summer as fleeting. Ancient wisdom tells us to seize the day but it should tell us to seize the summer. Though somewhere along the line I forgot to do just that... Beautiful summer days became impossible for me to see as beautiful, the season itself became nothing but time to while away. During those fleeting months of blue skies, warm winds and orange sunsets, during that time when everyone was happy, free and impulsive, I was secluded. And it was during a beautiful summer day that I discovered how my very own Sorrow loved rain too. In fact, my Sorrow couldn't wait for the rain... I longed to wear a winter coat as one longs for a hug. That may be sad to say, that may be silly to say, but it is true.
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.
I wouldn't say this stanza contains my favorite verse of the poem but it probably contains the verse that went through my mind the most whenever I looked out the window to find a blue sky – She's glad the birds are gone away... That verse would so absolutely cross my mind as if I had written it myself. But who was that female voice? Did I share her thoughts? Was I glad as well? No, I don't think I was. I was content but regretful. I would rather have been sad about the departure of the birds, for that would have meant I had lived a summer I wished would last forever. My very own Sorrow extolled the virtues and beauties of winter, and though I believed her, I wondered if she was only saying what I wanted to hear... Summer now strikes me as time lost, winter strikes me as time regained. And yet, it should be the other way around, no? Winter is stillness, summer is movement. But movement demands muscle and flesh, movement is loud and brash and swift, movement is purpose. And purpose was never for me. I was always one to sit still, to watch and listen. So if the birds no longer sing, I will be fain to list to the songs of Sorrow.
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.
Now therein lies the question for me... After this particular summer, I would proclaim winter to be my favorite season. Winter simply agrees with me, I'd say to myself, it agrees with my nature. There were summer days in which I would go to bed late so as to spend more hours in the dark than under the sun. My Sorrow, like Frost's, would tell me to love the barren trees and those skies full of clouds so heavy they seem to draw water and to draw near. I want to, I truly want to appreciate that beauty, and in many ways I do, on days such as this one for example, days that make me feel calm and quiet, just by reading and writing and whiling away the time. Yet when summer comes along, or on those winter days when the sun thirsts for rain puddles, I am reminded that summer always awaits. Each summer will have its day and when it does, people will seize it, they'll be happy, and then summer will end and they'll be sad. At least they were happy for a moment, weren't they? But was that trade worth it? I don't think so, but when a summer day comes along, the temptation of that trade hits harder than any other. It's an offer that doesn't speak, it's an offer that simply is. It's just there, all the time, for everyone... but not for you, my Sorrow says. So she vexes me to love the world only when the world is cold and distant... But it's easy to forget that when the world is cold, people huddle closer together.
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.
In this final stanza, Frost admits that he suffers the Sorrow's vexation in silence. He already loves those cold days, he appreciates them and quietly enjoys their beauty, and he has even done so for a long time. So why are those days made better by the Sorrow's praise? Does that mean Frost's sadness taught him to appreciate them in a new way, a better way? I like to think so because it is how I personally think. Winter is good for the soul, it's kind and it's soothing... and it's numbing, so numbing... After a sad summer, winter comes as a bag of frozen peas on a bruised shin. We return to school to find everything sure and steady, full of familiar faces and old routines, and before long, a bad summer begins to seem like a bad dream. But another summer draws near. And now looking back, and stealing from Avon Barksdale of all people, in life we only live two days – one in winter and one in summer. Then again, if no such triumphant return awaits the end of summer, one can hide away and hibernate for the winter. Wait for the next summer, the Sorrow says, wait out the cold and everything will be better then. But will it though? Will it really? No, it's all just a chase. If you admire food when hungry, you'll desire it, if you admire food when sick, you'll despise it. Isn't that the basic one-two combination of life? Isn't that the simple passing of the seasons? Isn't happiness as fickle as the weather?
And that's about it. If I think of another poem as meaningful to me as My November Guest it will most likely be another Robert Frost poem. I'm not that well-versed in poetry but as far as I can tell, Frost is the best at it. Or at least, his poetry is the best for me. As such, this brief essay is exactly what it claims to be – a personal take on his poem. If you were expecting a more academic sort of thing, yeah well, sorry... So what else can I say? I suppose I can briefly mention the slight irony of spending the last days of summer reading a book that glorifies the beauty of winter... And then, eager to see the summer's end, I'd remember Frost's verses when looking at a gray sky, a muddy path, a rain puddle... Maybe that's that hubris again, or maybe there's no such thing as coincidence.
In truth, I wanted this poem to be happy. On this day, it isn't. But tomorrow is always another story.
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