AUTUMN WITHIN - by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

AUTUMN WITHIN by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow It's 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 don't murmur from the mill.