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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.

Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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