In The Harbour: 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.