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.