It is autumn; not without br But within me is the cold. br Youth and spring are all about; br It is I that have grown old. br br Birds are darting through the air, br Singing, building without rest; br Life is stirring everywhere, br Save within my lonely breast. br br There is silence: the dead leaves br Fall and rustle and are still; br Beats no flail upon the sheaves, br Comes no murmur from the mill.