Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (27 February 1807 – 24 March 1882 / Portland, Maine)
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.
Poet Other Poems
- A Ballad Of The French Fleet. (Birds Of ...
- A Day Of Sunshine. (Birds Of Passage. Fl...
- A Dutch Picture. (Birds Of Passage. Flig...
- A Gleam of Sunshine
- A Nameless Grave
- A Psalm of Life
- A Shadow
- A Song Of Savoy
- A Summer Day By The Sea
- A Wraith In The Mist. (Birds Of Passage....
- Afternoon in February
- Allah. (From The German Of Mahlmann)
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.