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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRESCENT MOON by AMY LOWELL NEUTRALITY LOATHSOME by ROBERT HERRICK THE REVENGE OF HAMISH by SIDNEY LANIER WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?; TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE THE ARROW AND THE SONG by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 2 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL |