Autumn Within by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Autumn Within

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.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Read poems about / on: autumn, lonely, silence, spring, life

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Kenneth Pope (10/14/2006 8:28:00 PM)
Seems like this may have been written when Longfellow was in his twilight years, or at a time when there was a great deal of turmoil going on in his life.