Edna St. Vincent Millay — When the Year Grows Old

I cannot but remember        &nbspWhen the year grows old— October—November—        &nbspHow she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows        &nbspGo down across the sky, And turn from the window        &nbspWith a little sharp sigh. And often when the brown leaves        &nbspWere brittle on the ground, And the wind in the chimney        &nbspMade a melancholy sound, She had a look about her        &nbspThat I wish I could forget— The look of a scared thing        &nbspSitting in a net! Oh, beautiful at nightfall        &nbspThe soft spitting snow! And beautiful the bare boughs        &nbspRubbing to and fro! But the roaring of the fire,        &nbspAnd the warmth of fur, And the boiling of the kettle        &nbspWere beautiful to her! I cannot but remember        &nbspWhen the year grows old— October—November—        &nbspHow she disliked the cold!