November is often accompanied by sadness and sorrow. It is a logical effect of its bleak demeanor. But, as Robert Frost seems to state here, it need not be something to be dreaded.
He embraces his sorrow, personified here as a feminine presence, who finds the month beautiful - 'she loves the bare, the withered tree...worsted gray is silver now'. Sorrow can be beautiful, for it teaches us how to look more deeply at the world and revel in any mere hints of beauty we see. The poet here looks on his sorrow as a companion, not a foe, a guest, not a burden, a way of learning to be in the season, not berate it. So much so that he is able to find beauty and even balm in November too.
My November Guest - Robert Frost
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 walked 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 gray
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.