the year grows old

When the Year Grows Old
Edna St. Vincent Millay

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!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I do not dislike the cold. It teaches me to appreciate the hearth. The day is gray and the rain has been steady. I welcome the rain and the cold. It doesn't sadden, but brings renewal. My spirit. My hope. My pleasure in the comforts of home.

We have spent the holidays in a cheerful whirl of friends and dinners, wine and laughter, and I am reminded once again of all that I am grateful for. Tonight we will ring in the New Year alone, the affable Turk and I, in front of a cozy fire and a tiny tree, and toast to years gone by and those to come; old friends lost and new ones made; roads already traveled and paths yet to be chosen. We will be melancholy, yet peaceful. Grateful for our good fortune. The year grows old, and so do we. But I do not dislike the cold. It reminds me that I am warm.

Peace, love and prosperity to you all.

Happy New Year!