Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.