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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!

Poem by Edna St Vincent Millay
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