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!