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.