Autumn Within Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn Within

Rating: 2.8


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.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Kenneth Pope 14 October 2006

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.

7 3 Reply
* Sunprincess * 24 August 2015

...so poignant and nicely penned, the poet was in a pensive mood ?

4 0 Reply
Bijay Kant Dubey 31 August 2019

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.

0 2 Reply
nbaYoungboy 21 December 2018

this gay o n ma momma i blow a hole in ya momma

1 3 Reply
oladimeji daniel 14 May 2018

It is an intresting peom and also a sad peom

1 1 Reply
Tapan M. Saren 29 April 2017

O yea, very very beautiful poem it is.

2 1 Reply
Walterrean Salley 25 November 2016

As with everyone, in nostalgia, Longfellow addresses the twilight of his years.

2 0 Reply
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