Autumn Within

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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.

Next 10 Poems

• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Beleaguered City, The
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Belfry Of Bruges, The
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Birds Of Passage
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Blessing The Cornfields
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Blind Bartimeus
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Bridge, The
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Burial Of The Minnisink
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Carillon
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Changed
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Chaucer

Previous 10 Poems

• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Autumn
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Arsenal At Springfield, The
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Arrow And The Song, The
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : An April Day
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Afternoon In February
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : Aftermath
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : A Psalm Of Life
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : A Gleam Of Sunshine
• Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : A Fragment
• Vachel Lindsay : Yet Gentle Will The Griffin Be