Age

A poem by Walter Savage Landor

Death, tho' I see him not, is near
And grudges me my eightieth year.
Now, I would give him all these last
For one that fifty have run past.
Ah! he strikes all things, all alike,
But bargains: those he will not strike.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Age' by Walter Savage Landor

comments powered by Disqus

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