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.