When the Year Grows Old, By Edna St. Vincent Millay I cannot but rememberWhen the year grows old—October—November—How she disliked the cold!She used to watch the swallowsGo down across the sky,And turn from the windowWith a little sharp sigh.And often when the brown leavesWere brittle on the ground,And the wind in the chimneyMade a melancholy sound,She had a look about herThat I wish I could forget—The look of a scared thingSitting in a net!Oh, beautiful at nightfallThe soft spitting snow!And...