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.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add Autumn Within to your own personal library.

Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; A Wraith In The Mist

Anton Chekhov
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Susan Glaspell
Mark Twain
Edgar Allan Poe
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Herman Melville
Stephen Leacock
Kate Chopin
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson