 My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Allison Rogers. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 beauty she so truly sees. She thinks I have no eye for these and vexes me for a 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 sorrow and they are better for her praise. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Sarah Forbren and Price. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered trees. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 beauty she so truly sees. She thinks I have no eye for these and vexes me for a 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Cooper. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 leaves, the faded earth, the heavy sky, the beauty she so truly sees. She thinks I have no eye for these and vexes me for a 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by CalmDragon.net My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 beauty she so truly sees. She thinks I have no eye for these and vexes me for reasons 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by David Federman. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 reasons 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. In Brampton, Ontario, November 21, 2008. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 reasons 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Evan Barnes. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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 reasons 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My November Guest by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Elle French. My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. When she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. When she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bear, the withered tree. She walks the southern pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am feigned to list. She's glad the birds are gone away. She's glad her simple worsted gray is silver now with clinging mist. 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.