It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.

There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill. 

Added: on April 26th, 2006 at 8:48 PM | Viewed: 2234 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Poem: Autumn Within
Volume: In the Harbor
Poem of the Day: Nov 29 2005

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