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!