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. 

Added: Apr 8 2005 | Viewed: 1863 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Walter Savage Landor
Poem: On His Eightieth Birthday

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