Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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.