Sorrow’s Satisfaction

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 are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted grey

      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.

—“My November Guest” by Robert Frost

I begin each class with a liturgy. My students and I recite, and eventually memorize, an important poem every three weeks. I see my students twice each day—once for Literature class and once for Writing class—and so I have the privilege of ruminating upon a single poem with them multiple times each day. We have just finished Robert Frost’s “My November Guest,” whose words evoke a mystifying delight rarely considered: the strange satisfaction of sorrow.

The poem personifies “Sorrow,” who admires the “dark days” of November with its bare branches, dense air, and misty skies. October’s sprightly leaves have withered, and December’s white masquerade has yet to conceal November’s blemishes. Nonetheless, Sorrow “thinks these dark days of autumn rain / Are beautiful as days can be.” She flourishes on the cold, damp days of November, lauding their “desolate, deserted trees.”

 We rarely speak of sorrow in this manner—perhaps because Sorrow likes to whisper through her screams at God to have back what She has lost. Our sorrows flourish in the bleak circumstances of gloom, despair, and misery. Yes, the inescapable irony of being satisfied with grieving governs the wishes of the November Guest. Sometimes we find ourselves in excruciating circumstances where we actually long to remain sorrowful. A quiet, bleak, and dreary atmosphere enlivens Sorrow’s purpose—to grieve. Thus, the poem authenticates grieving within a context that nourishes sorrow. Appropriate grieving is appropriately good, as Lady Capulet tells us: “Some grief shows much of love, but much of grief shows still some want of wit” (Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 5). There is “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4). Other times we scramble to ignore or suppress our griefs. The poem also rebukes such a posture, for in our sorrow we find a strange satisfaction that comes only amidst the pain we endure. Forsaking sorrow would deprive us of this peculiar satisfaction, which is a balm for our aching souls.

I have tried to normalize the talk of grief and death in my classrooms. When grief comes our way—and it will come, as breakers smash the shores—we should welcome November’s Guest, huddling tightly to Her. We should get as close to Her as we can whenever she invites Herself into our lives—often uninvited. Surprisingly we may find that Her company satisfies us, providing for us just what we need in difficult times of pain and suffering. By welcoming November’s Guest, we emulate Christ himself the “Man of Sorrows acquainted with grief,” who knew the searing pain and pleasure of Sorrow, weeping deeply over the sufferings of others and of his own. And so, as November unwraps itself of its vibrant colors, wrap yourself in the love of these bare November days. You may find that Sorrow’s satisfaction is only a tear away.