(27 February 1807 – 24 March 1882 / Portland, Maine)

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.

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Comments (7)

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