On His Eightieth Birthday

A poem by Walter Savage Landor

To my ninth decade I have tottered on,
And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady;
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'On His Eightieth Birthday' by Walter Savage Landor

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy