My Sorrow, when she is here with me
thinks these gloomy, rainy autumn days
are as beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, withered trees
and walks the path through trampled meadows.
Her pleasure won’t let me stay still,
She speaks, and I’m ready to listen;
she’s glad the birds have now flown,
she’s happy that her simple, smooth gray
has turned silver, paired with mist.
The abandoned, barren trees,
the faded land, the heavy sky —
the beauties she truly sees,
she thinks I’m blind to recognize,
and it upsets her that I don’t admire them.
Not yesterday, but long ago I learned
to love the days of November
before the snow has covered them,
but it was pointless to tell her so —
they’re better left for her to praise alone.
