Autumn Within

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.