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.