The trees are bare now, each day is colder and shorter than the last and three long months of ice and snow are just around the corner.
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “When the Year Grows Old” captures the tinge of melancholy I often feel at this time of year.
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!