Autumn Within

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    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.