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!