On His Eightieth Birthday

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.

Next 10 Poems

• Walter Savage Landor : On His Seventy-fifth Birthday
• Walter Savage Landor : One Lovely Name
• Walter Savage Landor : Proud Word You Never Spoke
• Walter Savage Landor : Remain!
• Walter Savage Landor : Resignation
• Walter Savage Landor : Rose Aylmer
• Walter Savage Landor : Separation
• Walter Savage Landor : Soon, O Ianthe! Life Is O'er
• Walter Savage Landor : The Chrysolites And Rubies Bacchus Brings
• Walter Savage Landor : The Dragon-fly

Previous 10 Poems

• Walter Savage Landor : On Catullus
• Walter Savage Landor : On An Eclipse Of The Moon
• Walter Savage Landor : Of Clementina
• Walter Savage Landor : Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel
• Walter Savage Landor : Mild Is The Parting Year
• Walter Savage Landor : Lately Our Poets
• Walter Savage Landor : Late Leaves
• Walter Savage Landor : In Spring And Summer Winds May Blow
• Walter Savage Landor : Ianthe's Question
• Walter Savage Landor : Ianthe! You Are Call'd To Cross The Sea