Autumn Within Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Here the poet is feeling the load of the of the autumnal landscape and scenery in a retrospective perspective, how will it be the autumn of life? What about the journey which lies it ahead? As the title suggests it the poem is not about the autumn of the outside, but the autumn of the space lying within.
As with everyone, in nostalgia, Longfellow addresses the twilight of his years.
...so poignant and nicely penned, the poet was in a pensive mood ★
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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10/13/2024 10:51:01 AM # 1.0.0
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.