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