I cannot but remember <br /> When the year grows old -- <br />October -- November -- <br /> How she disliked the cold! <br /> <br />She used to watch the swallows <br /> Go down across the sky, <br />And turn from the window <br /> With a little sharp sigh. <br /> <br />And often when the brown leaves <br /> Were brittle on the ground, <br />And the wind in the chimney <br /> Made a melancholy sound, <br /> <br />She had a look about her <br /> That I wish I could forget -- <br />The look of a scared thing <br /> Sitting in a net! <br /> <br />Oh, beautiful at nightfall <br /> The soft spitting snow! <br />And beautiful the bare boughs <br /> Rubbing to and fro! <br /> <br />But the roaring of the fire, <br /> And the warmth of fur, <br />And the boiling of the kettle <br /> Were beautiful to her! <br /> <br />I cannot but remember <br /> When the year grows old -- <br />October -- November -- <br /> How she disliked the cold!<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-year-grows-old/
