The desolate, desert 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 if it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

— from “My November Guest” by Robert Frost