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.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem Autumn Within

1 Comment

  1. Leona says:

    hey! i really liked this poem cause it’s different from others i’ve read. so keep up the good work!

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