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.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Comments (5)

It is an intresting peom and also a sad peom
O yea, very very beautiful poem it is.
As with everyone, in nostalgia, Longfellow addresses the twilight of his years. poignant and nicely penned, the poet was in a pensive mood ★
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.