Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Autumn Within

It is autumn; not without,        &nbsp But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about;        &nbsp It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air,        &nbsp Singing, building without rest; Life is stirring everywhere,        &nbsp Save within my lonely breast. There is silence: the dead leaves        &nbsp Fall and rustle and are still; Beats no flail upon the sheaves        &nbsp Comes no murmur from the mill.