On His Eightieth Birthday
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.
Verse breaks and indentation are preserved. Wrapped lines have a hanging indent. Width adapts to your screen.
Public domain text via the PoetryDB open archive.
