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.
Age
Walter Savage Landor
(1)
Poem topics: death, year, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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